Time Shifts
by KnightFury
Summary: Set right after "The Scales of Justice".
1. A Chilling Experience

_**I have been working on this story on sleepless nights on my laptop. To be honest, I never actually planned on sharing this story, but a friend of mine said it was good and said I should show it to another friend that might help me with it. That friend of a friend is really encouraging and she told me to submit it once I had a title. Which I think I finally have now...**_

I am frightfully cold and in a great deal of pain, but I have more important matters to consider at the moment. I quickly fish the now senseless professor from the tepid waters that surrounds us before he drowns and wrap him in my dripping Inverness. This done, I drag him onto the bank and stretch him out on the grass. I gaze down at the man/snake that just attempted to kill me. I may be cold, but he is quite probably dangerously so after the soaking that we both took in the frigid water behind us while he was in his serpent form. Snakes are cold-blooded, after all; the very reason that I decided to jump into the aforementioned icy pool with him in the first place. I hope that he shall recover enough to be charged.

Lestrade and Watson are concerned. I don't have to look at them to know it. I somehow keep from shivering while I talk to them and even manage to crack a joke. Lestrade thinks it is terrible but she laughs anyway. She takes my show of humour as reassurance and that is exactly what it was intended for.

Watson is not as easily reassured. Compudroid he may be, but he has my Watson's knowledge and memories in his hard drive. "We should get you home before you catch a chill Holmes," he tells me. "Your temperature is falling rapidly."

Ah. I forget that compudroids don't have to touch something to gauge its temperature. I have no doubt that my Watson would have found that ability very useful.

"Can you not shiver?" he asks with fresh concern as he watches me. "You need to. Your core temperature will fall dangerously if you do not."

A shiver runs through me and I rub at my sodden arms. My torso and arms are still painful from being squeezed by a giant reptile and the tremour hurts. "I am all right," I insist.

"All the same, you should let Watson take you home," Lestrade tells me. "I don't want you to get sick. I'll take care of our criminal and escort him to the Yard. I'll call by and return your Inverness in the morning, OK?"

I nod wearily, shiver again and try not to wince. I am becoming tired now and I know that my companions are right; I am at risk of becoming dangerously chilled myself. I very much doubt that I shall catch anything though as I have never been overly prone to colds and chills. All I need is a good soak in the bath before bed.

Watson escorts me to our car with all the gentleness and concern of my faithful companion of old. He apologises for not having any blankets to offer me as he helps me into my seat and turns on the heater. Despite the sudden warmth I begin to shiver vigorously.

"Good! You are shivering now," he remarks cheerfully.

I frown back at him, for I see no reason at all to be so pleased about it. I am too cold to relax and as a result the shivering makes me ache even more. It also causes my breaths to become ragged.

"Do you feel ill?" he asks me, making me realise that my only response has been a glare and poorly-suppressed groan.

I shake my head and sniff. "I feel all right," I assure him abruptly. "I am only cold." I am also tired, but surely that is natural; the hour is late and continual, vigorous shivering uses a lot of energy anyway.

Watson gives me a small smile and concentrates on driving. "We'll be home soon old boy. I shall get you a cup of tea while you dry off and change your clothes."

Ah, it seems I am going to be bossed about until he is certain that I am in perfect health. Well, we shall see about that! On the other hand, I am dreadfully tired and a cup of tea sounds like Heaven at the moment. I shall submit for the time being.

We have been driving in silence for a few moments when I become aware of a lurking sneeze. I know that it is most likely due to the water that went up my nose when I dived into the pool but Watson will become concerned if he hears me. I shift in my seat and try to fight the building urge, which of course only makes it worse.

"Holmes?" my friend puts the car on autopilot and turns his full attention to me as my breath begins to hitch. He places a hand on my shoulder, making me shiver anew as my cold, wet clothes are pressed against my chilled skin, and leans as close as the restricting seatbelts allow. "Are you all right old chap?"

I close my eyes and turn away to avoid sneezing in his face. He may be immune to anything but a computer virus but I am not about to be impolite.

"Holmes...?"

I want to respond. The poor fellow sounds so confused and worried by now that I feel compelled to say something. I am completely at the mercy of my stinging nose however and am unable to speak a word. After what seems an eternity, but must really be a matter of seconds, I pitch forward into my hand with a rather loud "Huh-atchoo!"

"Bless you!" he pats my shoulder gently. "I hope you have not caught a cold."

I assure him that I have not; that I simply have rather more dirty pond water up my nose than I would like and that my body is taking necessary action. I give a further two sneezes as I speak as if to prove my point.

"Bless you. Oh bless you! I hope that you did not swallow any," he remarks with renewed concern.

I did not, though I did have to spit rather a lot of it out to avoid doing so, and I assure him of that hastily. He is quite worried enough.

"You are quite sure?" he asks me with a frown.

I nod and pitch forward with yet another sneeze. "Hitchoo! If the smell of that water is any indication, I probably would have vomited long before now," I tell him with a grimace.

"Bless you old boy," he pats my shoulder again. "Very well, you've convinced me. You are very pale though, even by your standards. I know that that could be put down to your falling body temperature, but all the same... You are quite sure that you feel all right?"

I nod and suppress a yawn. "All I need is a hot bath and a cup of tea." And my bed. My bed has never been so inviting!

He smiles. "I can arrange that for you," he assures me.

When we finally draw up outside of 221B Baker Street I am completely spent. Cold and filthy I may be, but I am no longer sure that a bath is a good idea. I am practically sleeping on my feet as Watson helps me up the stairs to our living room.

"Poor Holmes," I hear him remark quietly. "You are tired, aren't you? Here, wrap this blanket about you while I light the fire."

I am helped into my favourite chair, which is then pulled closer to the fireplace. There is soon a cheerful blaze in its hearth. My companion next finds me a handkerchief before going down to the kitchen.

I huddle in the blanket and shiver miserably. My nose is still stinging and I blow it vigorously in an attempt to rid myself of the filthy water that is causing my discomfort. I truly am grateful that I did not swallow any of the vile liquid.

By the time Watson returns with tea I am feeling a little better. I have removed my shoes and socks and the fire is warming my frozen feet. The sneezing seems to have subsided as well. If only I did not ache!

I am handed a cup of tea and told to drink up. My first eager sip warms me beautifully but it tastes as if my companion has emptied an entire bag of sugar into it. I shudder and grimace. "Watson! What the deuce is that? It's too sweet! Ugh!"

"That is to restore you Holmes," he explains patiently. "Sugar contains energy, which you have clearly spent trying to keep warm."

I am forced to bow to his logic and grudgingly finish the drink. I may not like it, but it does seem to help.

"I shall get you some more tea and then draw you a bath," my friend informs me.

I nod and settle back as he pours more tea into my cup.

The second cup of terribly sweet tea leaves me feeling almost as good as new and I am now confident that I can bathe without drowning myself. Watson escorts me into the bathroom and explains that he will ensure that the water's temperature shall remain only slightly higher than my body temperature.

"I shall monitor the water and add more heat to it as required," he says, wrapping his arm around my shaking body. "You are still recovering and should not be allowed to get too hot. You could be scalded."

He then tells me to undress and wrap the blanket around myself while he runs the bath.

I don't like to be ordered about, but still I comply without a word of protest. John Watson was an excellent doctor and I know that his knowledge in such matters should be taken seriously. Even if it is coming from a droid. I also do not want to waste energy by arguing.

The bath is good and I am glad to be clean again. The warm water stills my shivers and banishes the smell of the pool. Each time I begin to shiver again my companion adds more hot water, ensuring that I remain warm enough.

"These bruises look painful," Watson remarks, running a hand over my upper arm.

I wince at the touch.

"Sorry Holmes," my friend checks my wounds carefully while he helps me to bathe. He also ensures that I have no water in my lungs. "You were very lucky," he says at last. "There was no serious damage done. I expect you have some nasty bruising to the ribs, but there is nothing broken and no internal bleeding."

I nod tiredly. "I would have told you if I thought that my injuries were serious," I remind him.

"Yes, of course," he replies with a smile. "That is why I was more concerned about your low body temperature. All the same, I had to put my mind at rest when I saw those bruises."

I open my mouth to reply but instead give a tremendous yawn. "Oh, excuse me," I mumble as my eyelids start to droop of their own accord.

Watson holds me upright as he quickly rinses the remaining soap residue from my hair and skin and helps me out of the bath before wrapping me in towels. "Go back to the sitting room and sit by the fire while I prepare your bedroom," he instructs. "I don't want you to get cold again."

I decide to use the lavatory and brush my teeth first. I am not going to want to go back into the bathroom before I get into bed. I am already fighting to stay awake.

By the time I stumble into the living room I am feeling chilly again. I curl myself into my chair beside the hearth and pull the towels closer. I can feel my weariness pulling at me but do my utmost to wait until I am in bed before I give up the fight.


	2. Just Let Me Sleep!

I suddenly jerk from a partly-remembered dream with a vague recollection of having sneezed. Of course, that could be a part of the dream. I gaze about me, feeling disorientated and confused. I find myself lying in almost complete darkness and I feel dreadfully cold. I shiver and attempt to sit up, but I am held down by something rather heavy and restrictive. I know a moment of panic until I realise that I have been put to bed and tucked in. Tucked in? I suddenly become aware of a painful, tight feeling in my chest and further pain in my arms; which in turn causes me to remember my desperate fight followed by the soaking. With this information, I take in my surroundings anew and it occurs to me that Watson has done all that he can to make me comfortable and keep me warm. I am wearing my thickest sleepwear and have more blankets on my bed than I even knew that we had in the house. I can also feel that there is a hot water bottle at my feet. Then why am I so cold? Has a window been left open? It is unlikely, for even during the dead of night there would be the sound of traffic from outside. I shiver again and retreat further into the bed. It makes no difference; the cold seems to be in my very bones. With a moan I turn to my bedside cabinet to light the lamp. I find that my companion has provided me with a pile of handkerchiefs and plenty of water as a precaution. Sitting beside the jug and glass is my pocket watch, which informs me that it is quarter to two in the morning. Wonderful! At least that explains why I am still so dreadfully tired. I pour a small quantity of water into the glass and drink it gratefully before attempting to return to sleep.

The second time that I awake it is because my nose is running and my throat is becoming hot, dry and very sore. Damn! It would seem that my confidence in my immune system was misplaced. I blow my nose and drink some more water before looking again at the time. Twenty minutes past two. Well, I can see that I am in for a pleasant and restful night. I suddenly envy the recharging compudroid in the kitchen downstairs, for I know that he will have no difficulty in getting the rest, or whatever it is that droids call it, that he requires. I sneeze and shiver miserably before squirming down in the bed until the covers are up around my chin. The added warmth seems to help my throat a bit, but still I'd like to wrap a muffler about it. If I were not already so terribly cold, I might be tempted to go and find one.

By the time dawn arrives I am frustrated and have lost count of the number of times that I have awoke. My head is pounding, my throat burning and my nose is both sore and runny. I hear Watson's feet on the stairs and groan under my breath. He usually stays in the kitchen until I am up and about, so he has obviously decided to ensure that I am all right. I close my eyes and pretend to sleep. I do not want to face my companion just yet.

The bedroom door opens quietly and my friend steps inside. It is now that I realise that my lamp is still lit and that he will be able to see that I have drank most of the water and taken a number of handkerchiefs from the pile that he left for me. I hear him give a sigh and approach my bed slowly. I am just beginning to wonder whether or not compudroids are capable of knowing when human beings are acting when my breath starts to hitch with another wretched sneeze. I am just about to pull a handkerchief from under my pillow when I feel the bed sink as Watson sits beside me and then a handkerchief is held over my nose with all the gentleness of a human hand.

"Haachoo! Aaashoo!" I moan and open my eyes tiredly, knowing that I could not possibly have remained asleep through the violent sneezing and that Watson must be aware of that as well.

I am met by a sympathetic smile. "Bless you old boy. How are you feeling?"

Where would he like me to start? After a moment I decide that I shall state the obvious and nothing more; I am not in the habit of looking for sympathy. "Not very well," I mumble in reply. I hardly recognise myself! I had not realised how congested my nose is or how raspy my throat has become until I try to speak.

"I can see that Holmes," he retorts with a slight frown. "Even if you were not so pale and flushed, there is sufficient evidence that you have had a restless night. You also have a fever."

I cough into my hand and sit up, reaching for the water.

"Allow me," he pours the remainder of the water into my glass and hands it to me.

I drink slowly, savouring the cooling effect that it has on my raw throat.

Watson is watching me carefully. "Colds are such miserable things," he remarks quietly. "I am so sorry Holmes."

"Sorry for what?" I ask him. "This is not your fault."

He gives me a somewhat sad smile and pats my knee. "I'm sorry that it could not be avoided."

"Yes, well... There is not much that you could have done," I shiver violently and he drapes my dressing gown about my shoulders.

"I think you should stay in bed today old boy."

I moan and shake my head, about to protest. After the night that I have just spent in this bed, I want to get out of it.

Watson seems to understand. He helps me to get up without a word and drapes one of the blankets about me. "Go through to the sitting room and sit in your chair," he instructs. "I'll make you comfortable in a minute."

I do as I'm told without a word and curl up in a tight ball in the seat beside the unlit hearth, pulling the blanket closer in an effort to warm myself. I feel dreadful. I can't remember a cold ever knocking me off my feet in such a way.

I am drifting when my companion comes in and starts making a bed on our settee. I watch with little interest as he piles up my pillows against one arm and arranges my sheets and blankets into an inviting nest. He takes one look at me and seems to reach a decision. Without a pause or request for permission he lifts me into his arms, lays me on the settee and wraps me up, lightly touching my forehead to attempt to cool it. "Try to sleep; it is the best cure for a chill," he advises me quietly.

I nod and pull a handkerchief from my dressing gown pocket to dab at my sore nose. "My self-confidence of last night was misplaced, it would seem," I remark miserably.

"Oh, Holmes," he pats my shoulder gently. "You were quite right; you rarely catch colds. But you were severely chilled last night and the water you were soaked with was filthy. On top of that, the 22nd Century's bacteria is bound to be different from that which you are accustomed to."

I moan and curl up again. It had not occurred to me that my immune system might be two centuries out of date, but it would explain why an illness that I would usually consider to be little more than a nuisance has managed to knock me for six.

"Rest Holmes," Watson instructs. "I'll watch over you."

I settle down wearily and close my eyes. By this time I am completely exhausted.

"Zed!"

I force my eyes open and attempt to sit up, scattering damp cloths as I do so. My head swims and I sink back with a moan that I am unable to suppress.

"Now see what you've done!" I hear Watson scold. "That was the first time that he has really slept."

"I'm sorry," Lestrade approaches me and presses her hand to my brow. "I really didn't mean to disturb you. I guess I just reacted... Zed, you're hot!"

"Why are you here?" I ask, trying to pull myself together. "Do we have a case?"

She shakes her head. "No Sherlock. New London's quiet today. You know, I've never been so glad that we have nothing to do!"

I frown at her in confusion. She has still not explained why she is here.

"I thought you'd want your Inverness back," she explains. "I took it to be cleaned for you on my way to Scotland Yard this morning and just picked it up."

I smile, appreciating the thoughtful gesture. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," she assures me. "So... You caught a bad cold, I hear."

I nod and try to turn away, but that is rather difficult while lying down. I have to sneeze again and would rather not be facing her when I do so.

"What's wrong Holmes?"

I am now trying to hold my breath until the urge passes. My head is aching terribly and my throat and chest are also painful; the last thing I want to do is to sneeze.

"Sherlock? Are you all right?"

I fumble in my pocket for a handkerchief hastily. I just have it open and ready before it begins. "Haachoo! Huh... Atchoo! Choo!" Ow. That hurts even more than I expected. I try not to moan or grimace as I slowly turn back with a mumbled "excuse me".

I hear Watson bless me from his watchful position in his chair beside the settee while Lestrade smiles at me.

"Looks like you just got yourself a week off work Holmes," she remarks.

Now I do groan. What the devil am I supposed to do with myself for a whole week and will New London still be standing afterwards?

"None of that old boy," Watson says with a reproachful tone. "You do need time to recover."

Lestrade nods. "My thought exactly. You look like death warmed over Sherlock!"

What does that mean? Do I look like a corpse that has been put in an oven? I shudder at the thought and wish that my imagination was not quite so active.

"Are you OK?" the Yarder asks. "Do you want some water?"

Yes! I pull myself upright with a nod. "Please."

"OK Holmes," she pours some into a glass and hands it over. "Take some little sips first. Your throat sounds pretty irritated."

That would be because it is. I take her advice and still I start to cough.

"Easy Holmes. Take it easy."

I nod and take another tentative sip.

"Better?"

Not in the slightest, but I give her another nod and attempt to smile. I do not want pity.

"How do you feel?" she asks me. "Watson thinks maybe our bugs might have advanced some since your day. If he's right, I should get someone to examine you. Make sure you're OK."

I think not! I am not dying. "I feel as if I have a very bad cold," I tell her with more annoyance in my tone than I would like. "For obvious reasons, I'm sure. More than anything, I am very tired."

"All the same, we should get you checked out. You could have some kind of 'flu. I want to be sure that you're going to be OK."

Watson has stood and is now standing over me as well. "I have treated influenza many times," he reminds us.

I smile fondly and nod. "Yes indeed. Give Watson all the data on modern medicine that you can lay your hands on and leave me in his care," I insist. "I have never allowed any doctor other than John Watson anywhere near me and I have no intention of starting now."

Lestrade frowns at me before turning to Watson. "Do you think he has anything serious?"

"It is not easy to tell," he replies slowly. "Holmes does have a fever that is rather high for a common cold symptom, but it could be attributed to exhaustion; he was worn out by the time we got home and he had a very restless night. He is as tight-lipped and unhelpful a patient as ever, so I cannot tell whether his other symptoms are also severe."

I groan tiredly and pinch the bridge of my nose, closing my eyes. "I do have a dreadful headache," I mutter.

Lestrade has obviously heard because she presses her hand to my forehead a second time. On this occasion, I attempt to shy away from her touch.

"I'm not gonna hurt you Sherlock," she retorts with a small smile. "Come on, I'm your friend. I just want to offer you some comfort."

I do my utmost to calm myself, but I am not comfortable in this situation. I have never liked anyone to witness me in a vulnerable state and I am currently feeling much more tired and weak than I would care to admit.

"Look Holmes, you have to let us take care of you. If Watson's right, even a cold might be dangerous for you. I'm gonna find out what I can and I'll do as you say and help Watson update his medical knowledge too. Seriously though, we can't do much if you won't even tell us how you're feeling!"

I grimace and apologise.

"Tell it to Watson," she snaps. "You're scaring him."

I nod and watch her as she stands and goes to the door.

"Right," she turns to me with a frown. "I'm leaving you in Watson's care. Give him a list of symptoms and do as he tells you. If you don't, I'll find a doctor for you. Don't look at me like that, Sherlock Holmes!"

Like what? I had no idea that I was looking at her with a particular expression. I probably do look petulant though; I am not in the best of moods. I try to appear contrite, but Lestrade takes no notice.

"Look, it was my idea to bring you back to life," she tells me, coming to my side once more. "I didn't think about how you might be affected by how much your home has changed. It didn't even cross my mind that you might miss your best friend until you mentioned his journals..." she shakes her head and grimaces. "Now you're sick. I... I can't just leave you like this. You're here in the 22nd Century because of me, so I guess that means I'm responsible for you."

I can't help but smirk at that. "Responsible for me? Really Lestrade! I am hardly a child!" I want to say more but I start to cough again.

Watson helps me to drink some more water and runs his hand over my brow. He is cold to the touch and that does soothe me somewhat.

"No, of course you aren't a child," Lestrade is saying quietly. "That's not what I mean. I mean that..."

I nod and offer her my kindest smile. "You feel that you should do what you can. I understand Beth. The sentiment is appreciated." Complete nonsense, but I suppose it is nice to know that she cares about whether or not I feel comfortable in the environment that she has introduced me to.

"Get some rest Holmes. I'll be back later."

"Wash your hands," I all but order her suddenly, making her turn in the doorway once more.

She frowns at me. "Are you getting delirious or something?"

"Of course not Lestrade," I frown back at her impatiently. "I am ill and you have touched me. Twice," I grimace. "You should wash your hands."

She smiles at me. "That's sweet Holmes. I didn't know you cared."

I try to give her a venomous glare, but the way in which she smirks back at me informs me that it is somewhat pathetic. I become even more irritated as a result. I am most certainly not "sweet"! "I simply do not want you complaining later that I have given you my cold. I have warned you, so my responsibility is now annulled."

"Right, OK," she says, that annoying smirk broadening. "Well, I'll see you later Sherlock. Be good."

Be good? I raise an eyebrow at her. "Hum! Good bye Lestrade."


	3. Further Visitors

Watson crouches at my side as the porch door slams shut downstairs. "Lestrade is absolutely right, you know; you should tell me what is wrong. I do want to help."

I nod and attempt to clear my congested nostrils. "Do you know what a cold feels like?"

"Sort of," he rests his hand on my shoulder. "I can see that you are in a great deal of discomfort anyway Holmes. Whether I know exactly what a headache or sore throat feels like, I can understand that it is not pleasant and empathise."

I smile at this. I remember John Watson's empathy and sympathy only too well. He had a very kind heart.

"Are you all right Holmes?" he asks gently. "You do look sad."

What can I say? I am feeling homesick for my own era. I miss my Watson and even our old housekeeper. I shake my head and raise my handkerchief to my nose to hide as much of my expression as I can from him. "I am tired."

He frowns at me and moves closer. "Holmes, please talk to me. You are shutting me out again."

I don't want to tell him! What can he possibly do in any case? He can do no more about my emotions than I can. "This illness is making me emotional," I say at last. "Emotional by my standards, at least. I might also go so far as to think that I may be irrational." Why else would I miss our housekeeper?

"Oh Holmes," he rests a tentative hand on my arm as if I am suddenly very delicate. It is a ridiculous gesture and for a moment I am angered by it.

"Watson," I frown at him.

He squeezes my arm gently. "It is all right, I do understand. Please old boy, tell me what is troubling you."

The anger dissipates at once and I return to feeling sad and lonely. I almost want to become angry again! Well, I am not about to speak of my homesickness and so I decide to list my symptoms. It is not the best idea I have ever had. By the time I have finished I feel even worse, for I am now acutely aware of every ache, pain and discomfort that I have. Up until now I had not realised how much my ears are ringing or that I have started to feel nauseous.

"Could the nausea be caused by hunger?" Watson asks me. "You have not had a bite since yesterday."

How the deuce should I know? "I am not sure."

"I could find you some biscuits," he offers in a hopeful tone. "If you think it will be all right to leave you for a moment."

Yes, please leave me! I need a moment to pull myself together. I nod and turn away, not wanting him to watch me as I battle my emotions.

"Very well Holmes, but I shall be quick," he steps towards the door and stops. "Will you need a bowl?"

I hope not! "Not at the moment," I say honestly. "I am not feeling as if I might be sick. The nausea is barely noticeable."

"Give me plenty of warning if you begin to feel worse," he advises me needlessly. I am hardly going to do otherwise if I might need his help, for I most certainly do not want to vomit in our living room!

I agree to his terms without meeting his gaze and tell him to go. I then close my eyes and try to banish all thoughts of my own era from my mind. It is not possible. It would seem that, now that I am feeling so terrible, I want my Watson with me and to be in the London that I am familiar with more than ever. For selfish reasons at that! I wipe at my eyes and drag myself to my feet. I sway for a moment and the ringing in my ears becomes too loud to allow me to hear anything else. I go through to the bathroom and lock the door. I am not going to cry, I tell myself. I cannot understand why I am suddenly like this, for I had thought that I had adjusted to this new way of life. Apparently not. I close my eyes and try not to sob. This is ridiculous! What the deuce is wrong with me?

"Holmes?" Watson calls to me anxiously. "Are you all right in there?"

"Yes," I croak in reply.

There is a short silence. "Are you sure?" he asks then. "You have not gone in there to be sick, have you?"

"No," I assure him. "I was feeling sticky and sweaty. I had to wash."

I hear him sigh. "Be careful not to get too cold then."

Just leave me alone! I lean on the basin before me and close my eyes. "Is there no privacy to be had in this house?"

Watson apologises and leaves me alone. I know that I shall have to apologise to him at some point. Preferably when I am more myself. I wash away the tears that have managed to escape and then scrub the rest of myself clean.

Watson looks up as I leave the bathroom.

"I am all right," I assure him while I do my utmost to keep from shivering. "I just want to change my clothes. I feel disgusting and I must smell foul!"

He smiles at me. "You have a fever Holmes. You are bound to be sweaty. Come on, back to the sofa with you."

I try to insist, but I am weak and tired. My companion has no difficulty in dragging me back to the living room and sitting me on our settee once more.

"There we are," he says after wrapping me in the blankets. "Do you feel better?"

I shiver violently. "Yes. Thank you Watson."

He says nothing for a while. Instead he sits beside me and rests a hand on my shoulder.

"I am sorry that I shouted at you," I tell him suddenly. If I do not say it now I might not say it at all.

Watson squeezes my shoulder gently and smiles. "You are ill Holmes. You have nothing to apologise for."

I smile at him gratefully and lean my head back tiredly.

"Are you hungry?"

I shake my head. I feel too tired to be hungry.

"You should try to eat," he tells me. "If you are unable to manage a biscuit, I could make you some broth."

I shudder and grimace at the thought. Broth is for invalids! "I can manage a biscuit."

"Very well then," he chuckles and hands me one.

After nibbling a few biscuits and drinking most of the water that is forced upon me, I discover that my nausea has subsided. I tell my companion as much with a small smile.

"Good!" he beams back at me. "Is there anything else that I can do?"

I set aside my unfinished biscuit and glass and pull my handkerchief from my pocket.

"Fresh handkerchiefs," he says in answer to his own question. "I think that one is finished."

It is. It feels horrible in my hands. "Huhh-isshoo! Ashoo! Haachoo-choo! Attishoo!" I slump back with a groan and dab at my running nose. I haven't the energy left to blow it.

Watson hands me a fresh handkerchief and takes the dirty one. "I should do some washing."

I nod tiredly and close my eyes. "I shall be all right. Let me sleep."

"Are you sure?" he asks with concern. "Your fever is still rather high old chap."

"Sleep is the best cure for a chill," I mutter, repeating his own advice.

He pats my shoulder. "I know that Holmes. I just am not at all sure that I should leave you old boy."

I am just about to assure him that I am quite sure that I shan't die in my sleep when there is a knock at the front door.

"Oh no," Watson groans, standing up.

I wave a hand and curl up into a miserable, shivering ball. "Tell whoever it is to go away, would you?"

"Of course Holmes. Get some rest."

I listen to his tread on the stairs. I hear him answer the door.

There is a series of beeping sounds first and then a cheerful young voice.

"Hello Watson! Is Mr. Holmes in?"

I smile and pull myself up off of the settee. I am not about to turn Wiggins and Tennyson away!

"Holmes is ill," I hear my companion answer. "He is resting."

"Sick?" Wiggins asks with concern. "What's wrong?"

"Is there anything we can do?" Deirdre's voice asks at the same moment.

I stagger out onto the landing. "Yes! You can come in and shut that door. There is a terrible draught."

"Holmes!" Watson turns to frown reproachfully up at me. "I thought that you were trying to sleep."

I shrug with a hand and lean heavily on the banister beside me as I begin to shiver vigorously again. "I am quite wakeful now. I am not about to throw my Irregulars out!" I smile tiredly at them as they start up the stairs. "But keep your distance my dears."

"You look terrible!" Deirdre tells me as she races up the stairs at Watson's heels. "Should you be out of bed?"

I try to smile. "It is only a cold," I assure my Irregulars quickly. "My own fault, I might add. Serves me right for taking a moonlit swim while ff..." I close my eyes and turn my face away as I pull my handkerchief from my pocket. I feel a hand on my arm as my breath starts to hitch. "Haaachoo-choo! Aashoo!" I moan and dab at my poor nose. "Please excuse me. It was my fault for taking a swim while fully clothed last night."

"Bless you," Watson is squeezing my arm gently as he takes me back through to the living room. "You make it sound as if this was self-inflicted Holmes! Perhaps I should tell the Irregulars the full story."

I am ordered to stretch out on the settee and am covered once again in the blankets. I watch my companion tend to the fire before taking to his chair.

Tennyson's hoverchair makes a series of beeping noises that I can usually decipher without much effort. Not today, it would seem.

Wiggins nods in agreement. "Yeah, what happened last night?"

I shiver and pull the blankets closer.

"Maybe we should go and call back later," I hear Deirdre say quietly. "Mr. Holmes is really sick."

All eyes are turned upon me and I squirm slightly under their scrutiny. "Only a cold," I mutter. Even to my ears it sounds rather feeble.

Deirdre sits on the edge of the settee and takes my hand. "It doesn't matter what it is; I can see how bad you're feeling. Eyes and brains."

I smile in spite of myself. "You really should stay away," I mumble.

"You said it was nothing serious, so what does it matter if I catch it?"

I frown at her. "Obviously, I would not want you to suffer as a result of your kindness."

"I'll be careful," she assures me with a smile.

I close my eyes and dab at my nose again. I do wish that she would listen, but I hardly want to seem ungrateful or rude.

"What can we do to help?" Wiggins asks Watson. "Do you need anything from the shops? I'll bet you haven't wanted to go out and leave Mr. Holmes while he's like this."

"How kind!" my companion eagerly starts to make a shopping list. "In particular, we need these things at the top of the list," he tells him. "You shall have to visit a pharmacy for them."

Does New London have any pharmacies? I cannot remember seeing any. I can only hope!

Wiggins takes the list and frowns. "I've never even heard of this stuff Watson. What's laudanum?"

"A medicine. It is used for many things, but most commonly as a cough suppressant."

"Cough syrup. Got it. What about this one? And does that say morphine?"

Watson peers at the writing that he is pointing at. "That is a cooling medicine to bring fever down. And yes, morphine will help Holmes to sleep and relieve his pains."

"Paracetamol will lower a high temperature," Deirdre announces helpfully, squeezing my hand. "It's good for pains too Watson. Wiggins, get some of those hot drinks meant for colds and 'flu. They contain paracetamol."

"Right, OK."

Watson is looking increasingly lost. "Is there anything else?"

"Hard sweets?" Deirdre asks. "They'd be good. See if you can find some cough sweets, but I guess ordinary, old-fashioned boiled sweets are almost as good."

"They are," Watson agrees.

Wiggins nods. "Yeah, OK! Coming Tennyson?"

He is answered by a series of beeps and the two descend the stairs. I wince when the doors slam downstairs.

"What can I do Watson?" Deirdre asks quietly.

My companion looks thoughtful for a moment. "I really should do some washing. Holmes has almost got through all of his handkerchiefs and there are the clothes that he was wearing last night that need a good clean as well."

"I can do that," she announces, jumping to her feet. "You take care of Mr. Holmes. Where's your washing machine?"

This time we both frown at her.

"We don't have one," Watson tells her. "This house has been preserved in much the way that it was when Holmes and I first lived here. It did not cross our minds to modernise overly much when we moved back in because this is what we are used to."

She smiles and squares her shoulders. "The launderette it is then. Is there any kind of soap I shouldn't use, Mr. Holmes?"

"Use something that will keep the fabrics soft," Watson requests on my behalf before I have a chance to reply. "His nose is clearly rather sore already."

I decide that I have no reason to stay awake as Watson has matters well in hand. I cover my disgusting nose with my handkerchief and try to sleep.


	4. Purple Tea?

When I next awake, it is to the sound of hushed voices. Before I am even fully aware of my surroundings, I have a cool hand at my forehead.

"Hello Holmes," Watson says quietly. "How are you feeling old boy?"

"I ache," I groan after a moment. My chest has become extremely painful and the rest of me is not faring much better.

My companion leans closer. "Where do you ache?"

Everywhere! I grimace. "My chest, particularly."

"Is that because you were crushed by a man that turned into a snake?" Wiggins asks as he approaches. "Watson told us the whole story when you were asleep."

I nod and rub at my eyes. "Probably," I do have more to say but I am still rather tired and am forced to pause and yawn into my hand. The long intake of breath irritates my dry throat and I begin to cough immediately afterwards. My chest is set afire by the action and I clutch at it, curling in on myself as I do so with a strangled gasp.

"You did check him over, didn't you Watson?" I hear Wiggins ask.

Tennyson adds something that I cannot follow.

Watson turns on them with a frown. "Of course I did! First I ensured that he was not in danger of exposure or shock due to the cold and then I checked his wounds."

"I'm sorry Watson," Wiggins says quietly. "I know you're a good doctor and a caring friend. It's just that... Mr. Holmes isn't a wimp. If he's like this, the pain must be really bad!"

I grimace and slowly stretch out again; I do not want to alarm my friends. "I am all right. I have a few bruised ribs, that is all."

Wiggins shakes his head and folds his arms. "I've had bruised ribs; they hurt, but not like that. I think Watson needs to take another look at you."

"We should leave the room then," Deirdre announces. "Come on. We can make Mr. Holmes a nice hot drink."

A cup of tea would be most welcome! I smile at them gratefully as they leave us.

"Thank you," I hear Watson say to them quietly. He waits until we are alone and then starts to undress me. "The bruising is not as angry-looking now," he observes after a moment. "Wiggins is absolutely right; you should not be in such pain. What does it feel like? Where is the pain?"

I wince. "The ribs do ache, but my chest itself is painful as well. Behind the breast plate."

"I ensured that you had no water in your lungs," he says, more to himself than to me. "If it is not that, I would be inclined to suspect congestion of the chest, but there is no noise to indicate that you have any when you cough."

"What does that mean?"

He frowns thoughtfully. "You said that the pain in your chest is the worst; that indicates that you are hurting elsewhere. Can you list the other places in order, beginning with the most severe pains?"

I groan. "It would be quicker to list the places that do not pain me. Even my fingers and toes ache!"

"That does sound like influenza," he tells me with a regretful tone. "I feared as much when I first assessed your temperature this morning."

I shiver violently and turn away to sneeze into my handkerchief. "Aaashoo! Attishoo!" I shiver again and moan, wiping at my nose wearily.

"Bless you," Watson says quietly as he dresses me again. This done, he checks my vitals. "Your pulse has escalated. Do you feel all right?"

I nod slowly. "I am still very tired," I mumble.

"You should take some medicine before you attempt to sleep."

I groan. I do not like having foul-tasting substances forced down my throat. In my profession, I have become most distrustful of such things. Not that I have any reason to mistrust Watson, of course; I simply am not the sort of man that would choose to submit myself to the care of another. "And so it begins..."

"I am warning you now Holmes: do not start. Do I have to remind you that Lestrade has said that she will find a different doctor if you will not co-operate with me?"

I groan again. "I am co-operating," I mutter rather defiantly. "I have not attempted to escape."

Watson gives me a thoughtful frown. "Because you are too tired and weak to so much as stand and not due to being remotely co-operative, I fear."

"There may be a sliver of truth in that," I admit with a small smile. Even if I felt able to stand unassisted, where would I go? I doubt that I could outrun my companion in any case.

"I shall ask the Irregulars back in," Watson informs me. "Perhaps you will be less inclined to carry on like an incorrigible infant with them here in the room. No Holmes, I mean it; I shall hear no more 'this is just a cold' talk either. You shall answer to me or have a stranger treat you."

That cuts deeply and I immediately desist. What choice do I have? "Very well Watson, I shall do exactly as I am told." Even if that means taking things that I would not wish upon my worst enemy!

When my Irregulars return, Deirdre is carrying a tea tray and Wiggins has a bag in his hand.

I eye the bag suspiciously, but it does not have a pharmacy logo on it so I relax somewhat.

"We sorted through the shopping while we were downstairs," Wiggins announces. "I know it wasn't on the list, but we got a few tins of soup, as well as the fruit and stuff you wanted. The tins are in the kitchen cupboard."

While Watson is looking through the offerings and praising my Irregulars for a job well done, Deirdre approaches me with a steaming cup.

"Here you are, Mr. Holmes," she says with a bright smile. "This should help."

Ah, tea! I take the cup from her and then frown at the contents. "Purple tea. That is... novel."

She looks nervous, I notice. What reason does she have to be nervous? What the deuce has she given me to drink?

I sip the drink gingerly. Ugh! It is like nothing that I have ever tasted! I swallow it with difficulty and try not to react. The drink is both bitter and sweet and tastes horribly artificial. "What is this drink?" I ask quietly.

"It's to make you feel better," she explains. "It's got all the stuff in it you need to fight this cold off."

Lucky me. Not only does it taste disgusting, but I have to drink it all. I try to at least look as if I appreciate the gesture, which of course I do.

"I know," Deirdre says sympathetically when I force myself to swallow another sip. "I know it's bitter. I could add some sugar, if you want."

I would be willing to try anything! I smile at her. "Yes please."

Watson shakes his head. "Surely it is not as bad as all that? If it is a drink, it is surely intended to be palatable."

"Would you like to try some?" I snap at him. I take another sip when Deirdre hands my cup back to me. There is a slight improvement and I thank her gratefully.

She smiles at me and turns to Watson. "These drinks are meant to help you get better, not pass a taste test. I hate them, but they do work."

It is so nice to have someone so sympathetic on my side where medicines are concerned. Watson would always tell me that it was necessary to take something and see that I did so. Though I must admit, he only ever forced me to take anything at all if he was certain that it was unavoidable.

When I finally finish the vile drink I am rewarded with a glass of water. I drink that gratefully and then lie back. I am still dreadfully tired and I am also cold.

Tennyson is saying something and I try to understand. I cannot and it both annoys and saddens me. I fix my eyes upon him apologetically. "I am sorry," I mumble. "I am too tired... I cannot follow you."

"It's OK," Wiggins assures me on the lad's behalf. "Tennyson just wanted to know if you felt any better."

I nod and try not to yawn. "I think so."

"Is there anything more that we can do before you try to sleep Holmes?" Watson asks.

I shiver and attempt to pull the blankets closer. I am absolutely freezing! "Not unless you can raise the temperature in here any further," I reply through suddenly chattering teeth. "I feel even colder than I did last night."

"Your fever should start to come down soon," he assures me gently. "You will feel warmer then."

I smile and nod. Of course he is right; I only feel cold because of this wretched temperature. I close my eyes and try to sleep, but the shivers are vigorous and my body aches in protest. When my Watson was as ill as this, I would help him to settle with my beloved violin (which is another sorely missed old friend. I wonder what became of it...) but it would seem that I am forced to struggle alone.

"I think we should go and let Mr. Holmes rest," Wiggins decides. He stands and approaches the settee. "Get well soon," he tells me, shaking my hand.

"I shall do my utmost," I assure him with a small smile. "Illness is tedious."

Tennyson approaches me next and I give him an apologetic grimace. "I am so sorry," I begin.

"You're sick," Wiggins says. "You can't help it. Tennyson knows that."

The boy in the hoverchair grins at me and gives me what appears to be a salute.

I return the gesture wearily. "We shall chat later," I promise him with a small, pathetic smile. I have already become tired of this illness!

Deirdre approaches me last. "I hope you feel better soon. I really hate to see you like this."

I take her hand and squeeze it. "I have had worse my dear," I assure her. "Watson is taking care of me and will not permit me to become worse."

She seems reassured now, for a small smile graces her lips. "Take good care of yourself and listen to Watson."

I nod. "Of course."

"We'll call by tomorrow," I hear Wiggins tell Watson. "You might need some extra hands again."

I remember to thank them and tell the compudroid that there is some chocolate in the kitchen that they can take with them.

"Won't you want it when you're feeling better?" Wiggins asks, turning to me.

I shake my head and smile. "You have earnt it. Go on, take it."

"Thanks."

I wait until the sitting room door has closed behind them and then cover my eyes with my arm. I am glad that they are gone; I could keep up my façade for no longer. My head is pounding and I am so very tired.

Watson comes to my side and rests a cool hand on my forehead. "You have been putting on a brave face," he notes.

"You saw how worried they were," I reply wearily. "I would try to keep it up for your benefit, but you can monitor my temperature and vitals without even having to touch me."

He frowns at me. "You should be honest with me anyway Holmes."

He is right and I admit as much. "But I do not like to trouble my friends..."

"I hardly have anything better to do," Watson retorts. "Being made of metal has its advantages. I do not become hungry or weary, for a start."

I try to smile. Not having to slow down to meet the demands of my body would certainly be an advantage during a long case. All the same, I can also see the disadvantages of being made of metal; being unable to taste or smell, for instance. To never smell a rose or feel the sun on my face...

"Are you all right?" my companion is asking me anxiously. I realise that he had continued to speak and that I had not been paying attention.

But of course I am all right! Why would I not be? I only have a cold!

"Holmes, can you hear me?"

Did I not answer him then? "Yes Watson. I am sorry. I must have been... My mind was wandering..."

"It sounds as if it still is," he remarks in what I imagine is supposed to be a calm tone. I know him well enough to recognise that he is trying not to seem scared.

I cough and wince as the pain in my chest flares again. Why does it hurt so much?

"Try to sleep," my companion suggests gently. "I shall be here if you need me."

I nod and again try to smile. I am glad that the fellow is not at risk of falling victim to this illness, but all the same... I wish that he was my dear old Watson! Never before have I wanted his presence like this while I was so very unwell. I feel I need him, rather than simply wanting to see him; I would even allow him to force what he pleased down my throat without a fight! I close my eyes and again try to sleep, knowing that in slumber I shall not think.


	5. The Comfort of Companionship

Even before I am properly asleep, I begin to dream. Watson and I are walking the familiar cobbled streets of London arm in arm, idly chatting about this, that and nothing at all. It is dreadfully cold, but we are well wrapped up and pay the weather no heed, even though the chill in the air causes our eyes to water and our noses to run. We soon enter a theatre and take our seats. I am glad of the warmth and I am sure that Watson is equally so, though he makes no comment. He never has been one to complain when I subject him to one of my whims! The air is thick with music and all at once I am lost in it, swept away by the sweet sound of violins. Then, when the lights come back up, I find myself alone. I wonder where my companion has gone and why he did not say something before he vanished. Usually he would not leave without a word! Was I far too wrapped up in my own enjoyment to pay attention? I begin to search desperately for my best friend, but there is not a sign of him. I rush out into the street to find that the cityscape has changed to that of 22nd Century New London. I turn to discover that the theatre that I have just left has been pulled down long ago and that the site has been redeveloped. I knew that it had, for I have passed through this area with Lestrade, but still it comes as a shock to me now. Suddenly at a complete loss, I sink to my knees on the concrete. If I did not know that I was alone before, I am well aware of it now!

"Holmes!"

I open streaming eyes and sob as I am held close to a hard body. The embrace is supposed to be comforting, but it is anything but. The arms and torso should be warm and a great deal softer; there should be the sound of a heartbeat and the rise and fall of a chest. Even in my disorientated and confused state, I know that this is not the man that I was smiling with moments ago, before I was dragged back to this wretched era of bossy women and flying cars. I choke on the tears and try to desist, for I do not cry and especially not with an audience!

"It is all right," Watson is telling me. "It was only a bad dream. It is all over now."

If only he knew! A nightmare it may have been, but it is one that I am living! I try to pull myself together enough to speak. When I attempt to talk I can only cough.

"Water?"

I nod and cough again. I feel odd, I realise; nauseous and dizzy. Am I about to faint? I am sure that I can do little more to add to my disgrace, but a fainting spell might yet achieve it.

Watson holds me carefully so that I am upright and helps me to drink. He seems to know that I am feeling faint. "Don't try to speak yet," he advises me as he watches me swallow tentatively. "You have probably hurt your throat."

I give a slight nod of agreement and confirmation that he is right. I finish the drink and then try to push him away. The water has helped my throat, but it has also made me aware of a different discomfort and I would like to tend to it before it worsens.

"What is wrong Holmes?" my friend asks with concern.

I am not shy in the slightest, but I am a gentleman. There are certain things that I prefer not to discuss and I am not sure that a droid would comprehend anyway. Usually, Watson would not ask me for an explanation if I were to stand up and walk away with nothing more than a request to be excused, but I am unwell and he is concerned. I am also painfully aware of the likelihood of my requiring help. I grimace and wave a hand in the direction of the bathroom. "I have to relieve myself."

He looks askance. It is a term that he has not heard or "scanned" before then. How else can I put it?

"My bladder is full."

"Oh," he nods and helps me to stand. "Yes, of course."

I take it very slowly and tentatively, with Watson at my side. He gives me as much independence as he can afford, only touching me when I sway or stagger. Of course, by the time we reach the bathroom it is obvious that I need his help. My vision is blurring and growing dimmer and I am afraid that I am indeed going to faint. I realise that I shall have to tell my companion as much.

Watson nods and takes my arm. "I will help you to sit down," he says gently. "Do not worry; I shall ensure that you do not fall."

I allow him to help me to prepare myself and sit down without a word of protest. I am suddenly feeling somewhat detached from reality and do not even feel remotely embarrassed. I am still trying to make sense of this strange sensation when my vision dims completely. I feel Watson's hands grip me and then I descend into oblivion.

The next thing that I am aware of is being helped to rinse my mouth. I am leaning over a bowl that contains a purple substance. I grimace. "I was sick."

"Yes," my companion confirms quietly. "Do you feel better now?"

"I think so," I mumble. Why can I not remember vomiting? "What happened?"

"You have caught a very unpleasant strain of influenza," he responds, as if that is a perfectly adequate explanation. Perhaps it is; I am not currently functioning at my usual standard.

"I cannot remember vomiting..."

I feel the hand on my shoulder squeeze gently. "I very much doubt that you would want to, old chap. I imagine that you suffered terribly."

He is right, naturally; I do not want to remember it. All the same, I am not usually able to forget anything instantly, particularly not something so dreadfully unpleasant, and I find the gap in my memory disturbing. "What is happening to me?"

My companion sighs quietly. "I should not have allowed you to walk, that is all. You should avoid exerting yourself until your fever breaks."

"I had to use the lavatory," I mutter, rubbing at my forehead. That much I remember.

My companion gives my shoulder another slight squeeze. "I could have carried you or found you a receptacle..."

I think not! I try to protest quickly.

"Holmes, do not upset yourself. Have you finished rinsing your mouth?"

I decide that I had might as well finish the glass. My mouth and throat feel horrible! I gargle the last few mouthfuls and that does help a bit.

"Do you still feel sick?" is the next question.

I am not sure. My stomach feels as if it is made of jelly! "I don't... know..."

Watson quickly finds me a clean bowl and ensures that I can reach it should I need it. "I shall be back in a moment," he assures me as he takes the first bowl away. "I am just going to clean this up."

I nod and allow him to make me comfortable. My stomach is starting to pain me now and it spasms when I lie flat. With a gasp I clutch at my abdomen.

"Holmes?" my companion sets aside the used bowl and crouches at my side. "What is it?"

"It hurts!" I try not to cringe, but the spasms are excruciatingly painful.

I am helped into a sitting position and my stomach slowly calms again. I realise that I have been holding my breath and release it in a long sigh of relief which of course causes me to cough again.

Watson places the clean bowl in front of me in case I cough myself sick and holds my hand and rubs at my back in an effort to comfort me. When the coughing finally ceases, he gives me some more water and instructs me to drink some while he is gone. "I shall hurry. If you need me, call out; I shall leave the door open and listen out for you."

I nod and sip the water slowly and carefully, doing my utmost to avoid upsetting my stomach. The pain is subsiding and I hardly want to cause it to start again.

By the time my companion returns, I am feeling more like myself. I am incredibly tired though and, although I do not want to enter the realm of dreams again, I know that I shall have to sleep. I am just beginning to give up the fight when the front and porch doors slam shut one after the other downstairs. I moan and try to hide my face; I have had enough visitors and I am too tired to maintain a façade. There are familiar footsteps running up the stairs and the living room door opens. I know by the entrance that it is Beth Lestrade standing in the doorway staring at me and I lower my arm from across my eyes to greet her.

"Hello Sherlock," she says gently as she approaches me. "How are you feeling? Any better?"

I try to give her a reassuring smile; I can see that she is concerned. Before I can speak a word, however, she is looking at the floor beside the settee and grimacing.

"Feeling nauseous, huh?" she asks, indicating the bowls as she sits beside me. "Guess it's not just a common cold then."

I frown at her. I am quite sure that I would want to stay well away from someone that was as ill and contagious as I am and I fail to understand why she would want to sit at my side.

"Do you want me to go away?" she asks me.

I might be inclined to tell her that yes, I would, but she seems rather hurt and I know that she is concerned. I realise that it is not true anyway; I need some human contact.

She is already holding my hand. "What's wrong? You look so sad!"

"He has been like this all day," my treacherous companion tells her. "He seems very upset but he will not talk to me."

Thank you so very much Watson! I should like to know why Lestrade had to know that.

The Yarder squeezes my hand and looks into my face. "Would you like to talk to me?"

No thank you. If I start to talk about my current emotions I shall probably not be able to control them. I shake my head tiredly.

"You should Holmes," Watson tells me. "You will probably make yourself worse by trying to hold everything back."

Lestrade nods. "I know I get upset when I'm really sick. I guess it's because I feel so bad and I can't do anything about it. Is that what's wrong?"

I grimace. "It might be a part of it."

"I shall make some tea," Watson announces, standing. "Would you like a hot honey drink Holmes? I think perhaps tea or lemon juice would be too acidic for your poor stomach."

Honey would be wonderful! I smile and nod.

Lestrade waits until we are alone and then she frowns at me. "You've probably hurt his feelings..."

"I can hardly help that!" I gasp at her, gesturing wildly. "It would be far worse if I were to try to explain to him!"

"Then talk to me and I'll see what I can do. Come on; you trust me, don't you?"

When we face danger, yes. In a situation like this...

"Holmes?" she squeezes my hand and I realise that she has been talking to me. I really should pay attention. "I'm not gonna judge you, if that's what you're worried about. You're sick! Things can affect us differently when we're sick. It's OK, I promise."

I nod and draw a careful, deep breath. "I miss London," I tell her without meeting her gaze. "My own era, my friends... My violin..." my eyes blur with tears for a moment and I blink them away hastily.

"I'm sorry Sherlock. I thought you'd adjusted."

I attempt to clear the lump and catarrh from my throat. "So did I."

She suddenly does something that I had not expected. She flings her arms around me and pulls me into a warm embrace. "It's not your fault Holmes! I'll bet it's the sickness that's brought this on."

"It is. I was all right until today," I sniff and shiver. "But I still cannot understand why I am like this now!"

I feel her shrug her shoulders against me. "You need comfort and the comforts that you are used to are in your own era; it makes sense."

"I suppose so..." I sniff again. I hope that she does not think that I am crying! "Does that mean that I only miss Doctor Watson because I am a selfish wretch?"

She makes a noise that sounds rather suspiciously like a strangled sob and holds me closer to her. "Oh Sherlock! I'm so sorry!" she pulls herself together and shakes her head. "No, of course you don't miss him because you're being selfish! You miss him because he's your best friend."

I blink again, determined not to cry. I feel ridiculous! I cannot remember ever feeling so emotional.

"Hey," she has pulled away to look at me without my realising it. "It's OK. You're with friends. You don't have to fight. Not here."

I do appreciate what she is trying to do, but if I let my guard down now it will be harder to avoid allowing this to happen again. In any case, crying in front of anyone goes against every fibre of my being! I try to explain, but I seem unable to form a basic sentence.

"You are in a bad way!" she grimaces and presses a hand to my forehead. "Have you taken anything to bring your fever down?"

"He did, yes," Watson answers for me as he enters the room with our drinks. "He vomited soon after though, so I am not sure how much good it will have done."

Lestrade shakes her head regretfully and turns to pick up her cup, giving Watson a nod of thanks as she does so. "Poor guy! Is there anything I can do?"

"You could avoid catching this hateful illness..." I mumble.

She turns back to me with surprise. "Is that what you're so worried about?"

I groan and wipe at my nose. "You do not want to catch this. I cannot remember ever feeling so dreadful."

Her reaction is nothing more than a sympathetic grimace. "It's you I'm worried about! I had a bad 'flu bug the Christmas before last and we usually get hit bad by a 'flu once every seven years or so. I'll bet this thing won't affect me nearly as badly."

I am glad of that, but also somewhat envious. My constitution has always been a strong one and I cannot believe that I am feeling so ill! I am not used to being forced to stay still by a mere microbe.

Lestrade seems to know my thoughts, because she says nothing and instead shows her sympathy with expressions and gestures, but perhaps it is not difficult to deduce. She squeezes my shoulder and hands me my drink before turning to the compudroid that is sitting beside the settee in his armchair. "I got all the books I could on modern medicine for you Watson," she tells him. "The bag is by the door, if you want to scan them. There are also some data files that I sent for you to pick up."

"Thank you," he smiles at her and then turns his attention to the books, leaving me in the care of the Yarder.

Lestrade turns to me with a small smile. "I'll bet you could use some soup."

I grimace. "Not now! My poor stomach..."

"Are you still feeling nauseous?"

"Not exactly..." I grimace again and rub at my abdomen. "It is painful and... the muscles are spasming."

She touches my shoulder sympathetically as she sips at her tea. "Maybe Watson can help."

I nod and raise my own drink to my lips. I am ashamed to see that my hand is shaking.

"Let me," she sets aside her own cup and helps me with mine. "I can see that you're still feeling tired and cold."

I permit her to assist me without protest. It seems that I am in no position to argue.

"Better?" she asks when my cup is empty and has been set aside.

"Yes. Thank you Lestrade," I turn away to cough into my hand and do my utmost to keep from reacting as my chest and stomach pain me.

"You're hurt!" she gasps, moving closer to me.

I shake my head. "Nothing serious. Bruised ribs."

She nods and smiles with relief.

I try to return the smile in a reassuring manner but I am completely done up and still feel dreadful.

"Are you tired?"

I shake my head. The dream that I had the last time that I slept probably caused my recent fainting spell and bout of vomiting! I do not want to return to dreamland now.

"Are you sure?" the Yarder presses, watching my expressions carefully. "You look done in!"

I shiver violently and grimace. Even if I wanted to sleep, I am much too cold and uncomfortable to remain in slumber.

"What is it Holmes? What can I do for you?"

I do not know! Everything that I want is at least two centuries away and I feel lost and confused. I shake my head and wave her away before curling up and hiding my face. "Nothing. There is nothing that you can do."

"Zed, I don't believe that! There must be something I can do, even if it's just cooling your face a little..."

That would be nice, I must admit. My head is still pounding! I move my arm away from my face, expressing my permission for her to do so.

"OK Sherlock. Just give me a second."

I uncurl myself carefully while I wait. My stomach is still spasming painfully and I do not want to make it any worse. I feel my fatigue pulling at me and try to remain awake. I shall not sleep!


	6. Cards Upon the Table

_**I know that this chapter is at least double the length of the other chapters. Try as I might, I could not split it in half! Sorry everyone.**_

I open my eyes and look straight into the concerned gaze of Watson. He smiles and gently dabs at my forehead with a cool, damp cloth. "Hello old chap. How are you feeling?"

I try to sit up but he holds me down.

"No Holmes! Stay still. You have been very ill."

"How ill?" I ask tiredly. My head is aching terribly and my brain is dreadfully sluggish. My thoughts and memories seem to be scattered about my brain-attic like papers scattered about a room, as if the window beside my desk has been left open during a hurricane. "What is wrong with me?"

He hushes me gently and wipes at my face. "You have had a dangerous fever for two days."

I cough into my hand and gasp with pain. My chest hurts terribly!

"You have influenza," my companion explains as I wince and clutch at my chest. "You had been insisting that you had only a slight cold until you collapsed during the last case..." he sees my expression and smiles. "Yes, you completed the case, do not worry. Gregson has the thieves in custody and it is with thanks to you."

I nod and settle back, but I am still confused and disorientated. "What year is it?"

"What year?" his eyes widen with concern. "Holmes, are you quite all right?"

I force a smile to my lips. "Disorientated."

He nods his understanding and pushes a thermometer between my lips and under my tongue. Ah! I am so glad to be back in my own era! It was all just a fever dream! I am overwhelmed with relief as my dear friend tends to me.

My companion hums quietly as he studies the reading. "103.2 degrees. Still too hot by far."

I stay still and gaze up at him without a word as he resumes his task of cooling my face.

"You are very quiet Holmes. Are you sure that you are all right?"

I nod and smile at him. I do not think I could possibly be better, despite the horrid illness. "I have missed you," I admit. I want to try to explain while I am feeling able to express my affection.

"But I have not left your side since you were taken ill!" he says with a frown of confusion.

I shake my head as I try to explain. "The dream... A horrible dream! We were separated. I thought that I would never see you again."

He places the cooling cloth on my forehead and takes my hand in both of his earnestly. "I promise you, I would never desert you. If ever you need me, you only have to send for me. You are my closest and dearest friend."

My eyes become tearful at his words and I blink them hastily. Too hastily. Rather than holding the tears back, I cause them to overflow and run down my cheeks. I close my eyes and turn away in shame.

"It is all right," my companion assures me sympathetically. "I know that this is not like you. You are not the first man that I have seen become overly emotional due to illness, pain and fatigue. I would not judge a stranger harshly under such circumstances and I most certainly am not about to judge you!"

I sniff and touch his arm, hoping to profess my gratitude without having to speak a word.

Watson gently wipes away the evidence of my sudden emotional state with the cloth. "It is all right. I am not going anywhere."

"For which I am most grateful," I rasp in reply before starting to cough.

The doctor quickly sits me up and rubs at my back. His touch is gentle and reassuring and my body seems to react instantly. The coughing subsides and I relax.

"Would you like some water?"

I nod and rub at my painful chest.

He helps me to take some tiny sips while I lean against him.

I cannot begin to express how I have missed his support and friendship and I am grateful that he does not expect me to do so. He has never expected me to display emotion or affection.

"Are you all right now?" Watson asks with concern.

"Yes. Thank you," I sniff and he hands me a handkerchief. "Thank you. When you say that I have had a fever for two days...?"

He resumes his task of cooling my face. "You cannot remember then? The criminals had been rounded up and we were about to find a cab when you stopped abruptly and leant against a lamppost. You told me that you were 'only fagged' after the case and would probably be 'as limp as a rag for a few days'. But you were shivering and your eyes were far too bright in the gaslight. I said nothing, I know you too well, but I did escort you to the road with my arm linked in yours. You fainted in the cab."

I grimace and apologise but still I remember none of it. It sounds like just the sort of thing that I would do though and I am grateful to my loyal companion. Dear old Watson!

"It is all right," he assures me. "As long as you continue to rest you should start to feel better soon."

I nod my agreement. I owe him that much and more. "I am sorry to have given you such a scare. I shall be sure to listen to you in the future."

"You have been affected by that dream!"

"Yes. It was..." I shake my head as I try to explain. "We were separated by... You were dead, Watson."

He stops and stares at me. "Dead?"

I nod and blink rapidly. I will not cry. Not again.

"Yes, I can see why it affected you so badly. A dream like that is bound to..." he looks down at me and then gives me a small smile. "Well, I am here Holmes. I am not going to leave you."

I am truly grateful to him for understanding me.

"You should sleep. I shall stay at your bedside until you order me away."

I very much doubt that I shall ever be able to order him away! But I cannot sleep. I am afraid to so much as close my eyes in case he vanishes into air like a wisp of smoke.

Watson seems to know my thoughts, for he smiles and takes my hand to give it a reassuring squeeze. "I am here and here I shall stay. Sleep Holmes."

The fellow is becoming as perceptive as I am. I smile at him wearily and do my utmost to keep my eyes open.

He gives my hand another squeeze and starts to hum quietly. I have not heard him sing like this before; it is even more soothing than the cool cloth at my forehead and I feel my eyelids become heavier still. I give a jolt as I realise that he is humming one of my own renditions, the one that usually soothes my companion when nothing else will, and he squeezes my hand again in his reassuring manner. My vision becomes blurred and dull as I gaze back at my friend and then everything fades to black as my eyes gently close. I remain somewhere between wakefulness ans sleep, just listening to my companion as he sings and talks to me. He is still holding my hand I know without a doubt that he is here to stay. I am still wondering what the year is. Is he married? Does he still live with me? How much of what I think I know was invented during my dream? I groan. Thinking is painful! My head!

"Rest Holmes," Watson orders. "I promise you, you can rest. I have told Mrs. Hudson to inform any callers that you are away on business."

I nod my thanks without a word and try to settle. It is not easy; I am used to thinking. I can feel my fevered brain chasing its tail as it tries to function as it always has. The same thoughs flash through my mind, so quickly that I am only half-aware of them. I try to sleep. Watson is right, I am doing myself no good. After what feels like an age I finally begin to drift. Then I have to sneeze. I look for a handkerchief desperately as my breath starts to hitch. Watson holds one over my nose and assures me that it is all right.

I jerk violently with a loud "Haaachoo!" and groan as the sneeze causes my head, nose, throat, chest and stomach to pain me. I open my eyes to find Beth Lestrade tending to me. Now I really am disorientated! Which is the dream and which is reality?

I attempt to sit up but I am much too weak. My vision blurs and the room spins. She helps me to lie back and adjusts the damp cloth at my brow.

"Stay still Sherlock," she admonishes. "You are really sick!"

Of course, it should not be difficult to work it out. Flying cars, women giving orders, machines that believe themselves to be human, men that turn into serpents... This has to be the fever dream! I settle back with relief. Once I am well, I shall be home with my dear friend and there I shall stay.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade leans closer and presses a hand to my cheek. She sounds rather worried. "Can you hear me? Are you OK?"

I nod tiredly. "I am sorry. I was... I am not properly awake yet." In fact, I am not awake at all.

"Zed, I'm sorry. Of course it'll take you a while to wake up! Especially while you're in such a bad way."

I groan and try to sit up. This feels too real... Is this the dream? I cannot remember ever feeling so terribly confused or disorientated!

"Thirsty?"

I nod. My throat is burning and I do not want to attempt to speak if I can avoid it. The water that she helps me to drink does soothe it a bit.

"Is there anything else you need?" she asks gently.

I shake my head and settle back again. There is nothing else that she can do for me. "Where is Watson?"

"He's getting the spare room upstairs ready," she says to my astonishment. "I had some vacation time to spare and I thought you could use an extra pair of hands about the place."

"Surely you have better things to do with your time Lestrade?"

She smiles. "I can't think of any better way of spending my time. You and Watson are my friends! I want to help!"

I am very touched. I cannot remember anyone other than Watson ever choosing to spend their time caring for me and the doctor, I thought, was unique. I rarely meet human beings that can be so very kind. Usually, I have found, there is an ulterior motive at play. "But... Surely you are wasting your holiday?"

She laughs. "And what am I going to do with my vacation time, exactly? I don't have many friends, you know."

It suddenly occurs to me that perhaps Lestrade has been as lonely as I have. It would explain a few things... The way that she used to talk to her compudroid as if he... uh... it were human, before she got him to read my Watson's journals and take on his personality and memories, for example. I wonder if she had hoped, or even planned, for something like that to happen. She did not seem to be very surprised when he tried to impersonate my Watson's voice!

"Holmes, I want to be here for you," she is saying, gripping my hand again to draw my attention back to her. "Watson'll have to recharge tonight and compudroids aren't like people. I mean, you won't be able to wake him up if you need his help," she gives my hand a squeeze. "I'm gonna get all the rest I can manage once I have somewhere to sleep, so I can take care of you tonight. OK?"

"It seems to me that you have already made your decision," I respond quietly. I see the hurt expression on her face as she turns away and I try to apologise in my own way. "It is not that your help is not appreciated. I simply... I am not accustomed to... Most people do not..." I grimace and shake my head in frustration. What is wrong with me?

"Look, I think I know what you're trying to say," she says, turning back to face me again. "You're used to coping on your own. Even Watson wasn't always around to take care of you unless you sent for him," she shakes her head and gives me a knowing smile. "And I'll bet a month's salary you never called for him if you had a cold or the 'flu."

I feel somewhat uneasy. She knows me rather too well.

"I grew up reading Doctor Watson's journals and he spent most of his time writing about you," she says in answer to my expression. "You must've meant a lot to him."

I close my eyes and nod. I must have indeed. It was always a mystery to me that I could find such a friend. I wonder if he knew that he was even appreciated. I was not as good as Watson at expressing my affection or emotions.

"Look, I'm sorry. I know you miss him. I wish there was something I could do."

I swallow awkwardly. "I am all right."

"Of course," she gives my hand another squeeze. "Truth is, you mean a lot to me, too. At least... Well, you mean enough for me to want to be here if you need me. I know what it's like, having to fend for yourself when you're so sick. I've had to. I don't want to do that, just turn my back and leave you to cope on your own."

I realise that I am staring at her. "That is very kind," I manage to croak. My throat is still full of catarrh and my emotional state is not helping in the slightest.

"I'm your friend. Well, I like to think that I am. I wanna help, if you'll let me. What d'you say?"

I nod and try to smile. "You are right. I probably need a friend or two..."

She smiles back. "You probably do. Can I get you anything?"

"No. Thank you. There is not very much that can be done, from what I recall. I have tended to Watson while he was ill with la grippe, I mean influenza, and all that I can remember doing was cooling his face and helping him to sleep."

"With your violin?"

I nod tiredly.

She squeezes my hand and touches my cheek gently. "I can cool your face for you, but I'm not sure about helping you to sleep..."

I shake my head. "I am not sure that I want to sleep. The dreams are confusing at best. Some have been horrible."

"Fever dreams are horrible, yes," she runs her hand over my face gently. "You have to rest though. You won't get better without sleep."

I cough into my hand and grimace. "I know. I just..."

"You won't be on your own, I promise. If you have a nightmare, Watson and I will be right here for you. We'll take care of you. Well, if you'll let us."

I manage a small smile. "I shall try to let you."

"Thanks Sherlock. I know that it isn't an easy thing for you to agree to do."

Actually, for me, it is quite a sacrifice. I do not like to give up my independence. I am not going to tell her that; she is clearly making one or two sacrifices of her own, however much she may insist that she is here because she has no better way of spending her time. "Thank you."

"For what?"

I thought that that was obvious. I frown as I try to find the words. "Giving up your time simply to risk your health for my sake."

She gapes at me. "You're welcome, I guess..." she is quiet for a long moment and then she shakes her head. "You really don't think you're worth the trouble, do you? That's why you keep trying to push me away, isn't it?"

I look away. What the devil did Watson write in those journals of his? I wish I had swallowed my pride enough to ask his permission to read them, but after the manner in which I criticised his "poor scribbles", I was not sure that he would have wanted me to. I probably would not have liked what he wrote anyway. Watson's portraits of me were much too generous!

"Well, you need a friend and I'm here," Lestrade is saying. "I think you're worth the trouble and that's good enough for me. Wait here. I'm gonna get you another cloth so I can cool you a little better."

I nod and settle back with a weary sigh. I am feeling thirsty again, but I also have to use the lavatory. I know that I should probably mention it to her, but it is not a thing that a gentleman usually discloses. Especially not to a young lady. That is assuming that Lestrade could be called a lady, what with all of her cursing, of course.

I am drifting again when she returns and starts to wash my hot face. That feels wonderful! I smile at her gratefully.

"Better?"

"Yes. Thank you."

She frowns at me as I try to find a position that will ease my discomfort. "Is something wrong?"

"I am somewhat uncomfortable," I tell her with a grimace.

She nods and moves closer. "Well, yes, I can see that. What's wrong? Are you in pain?"

I really do not want to have to be blunt with her! I fidget under my blankets and position my heel beneath myself. "No, I am not in pain. I just... Would you get Watson?"

"What is it?" she asks in alarm. "Are you feeling worse?"

"It is nothing serious, I assure you. I just... Just get him, would you?"

"Of course," she replies quietly before running out onto the landing and rushing up the stairs to Doctor Watson's old bedroom. I expect I have frightened her.

Moments later, I hear Watson hurrying downstairs. "Holmes?" he calls anxiously as he enters our living room. "Are you all right?"

I nod and gesture in the direction of the bathroom. "I have to use the lavatory. Please."

He looks relieved, but also rather annoyed. "Do you realise how much you frightened Lestrade?" he asks as he lifts me into his arms.

"I did tell her that it was nothing serious," I cringe slightly. He is not being quite as gentle as I would like.

He frowns at me. "You seemed anxious to her."

"Naturally. I have consumed a lot of water," I fidget awkwardly. I cannot help it. "You would be anxious as well, I assure you."

He looks down at me and I get the impression that he is assessing my internal workings. "You should have told Lestrade that you wanted to empty your bladder."

"It would not have been polite!" I fidget again. The discomfort is worse in this position because my legs are pressing against my abdomen. "Watson, please... I have to go!" I am not at all sure that he appreciates the urgency of the situation.

"Holmes, it is a basic biological need! I am sure that she would have been sympathetic."

I tense. I do wish that he would stop talking about it and hurry up before something embarrassing happens! "Watson!"

He looks down at me again and realisation finally dawns. "You are..."

"In a hurry!" I snap at him. "Yes."

He speeds up and within moments we are in the bathroom. Thank goodness! I address him with a grateful smile as he helps me to prepare myself and sit down quickly.

"Why did you not tell me that your need was so serious?" my companion asks.

"What the deuce do you think 'I need to go' means?" I snap at him. I am still somewhat irritated. "I am not in the habit of being indiscrete, you know. If I start to shout at you, that should be an indication in itself!"

I can see that he is sorry. He is as expressive as my Watson was. "It is one field that I am somewhat unfamiliar with. After all, droids do not make water..."

"You are lucky," I grumble. I want to change the subject as quickly as possible. I never had reason to discuss anything like this with my Watson! "My advice would be to do some research. Privately. There must be medical information about such things, at the very least."

He nods in agreement and we are quiet for a few moments. He then apologises quietly.

I sniff and shiver. "It is not your fault. It is merely a delicate subject."

"Well, you are going to have to find a way of talking to Lestrade if you have to... 'go'. You are probably going to have an uncomfortable night otherwise."

I grimace at the thought. I could not spend a night feeling like that. I would be at risk of making a terrible mess! "I know."

He pats my shoulder. "Would you like me to talk to her? She is already worried; I should tell her what was wrong and put her mind at rest."

"Well, be sure to be polite," I request. "One would tend to use a term such as 'spend a penny' or 'answer nature's call' in front of a young lady. One would most certainly not say 'I had to empty my bladder'!" There, I think I have made my point. He may think that he is Watson, but there are some areas in which he most assuredly thinks like a compudroid!

"I am sorry Holmes. I cannot help it if the journals do not mention certain things."

How dare he blame my Watson! "The fact that Doctor John Watson did not speak of 'certain things' is indication enough that those 'certain things' would not have been mentioned in polite conversation," I snap at him. "Were you not a compudroid, you would know that."

He is hurt. I know it before he even reacts, for I know well enough that my words were inexcusably cruel.

"Watson, old chap, I am sorry. That was... I did not mean that."

He has turned away with his head bowed. I suspect that he would have tears in his eyes were it possible. "You did mean it."

"No! No, my dear fellow, I did not. I am ill and tired and emotional. I was not thinking about what I was saying. I would never be so cruel deliberately."

"That does not mean that you would not think it," he says quietly, his voice trembling.

I cannot bear to hear and see him like this. He may not be my Watson, but he has his memories and his nature. If I am cruel to him, I am (in a sense) also being cruel to my best friend. This realisation crushes me and I suddenly have tears in my own eyes! "This is very hard for me," I tell him, ignoring the sob in my voice and the lump in my throat. "I still..." I bite the bullet. I shall probably hurt him terribly, but keeping this to myself is hurting us both and potentially damaging our friendship. "I miss my Watson. You think like him, you have his memories (those that he recorded, at least) and I like you. You are my friend! But you are not him," I am crying now. I am surprised to find that I do not care. "You are right about one thing; I said what I said because I have not wanted to tell you what was wrong and it has been forefront in my mind all the day. But it is not because you are a droid. I became upset because I felt that you were blaming the man who wrote those journals - my sorely missed deceased friend! - for your shortcomings and that touched a terribly raw nerve." I start to choke. My throat has decided that it has taken quite enough punishment.

Watson throws his arms around me and holds me close. "Why did you not say something?"

I cough violently. "I wuh... was... a-fraid... I... would... hurt... you."

He rubs my back gently and shakes his head. "I understand Holmes. I am surprised at your sentimentality, moved even, but I am not hurt. I have only rarely seen the affectionate side of your nature - your great heart, which is usually hidden by your equally great brain - and I am very touched."

I continue to cough and gasp. I cannot give an answer.

"Are you all right?"

I choke and push him away. If I do not bring my coughing under control I am going to be sick and I do not want to vomit over him. I dread to think what damage might be done to him!

"All right Holmes. Calm yourself."

Before I even know what is happening, I have a bowl on my lap and my companion is offering me water. I take the glass from him gratefully in a shaking hand and take some tentative sips. The coughing soon subsides.

"Are you all right now?" he asks gently.

I nod. "Thank you," I croak. I still have tears streaming down my face, but that has more to do with the painful coughing fit than my emotions. I feel better now that we have the cards upon the table.

"Have you finished with the lavatory?" he asks carefully.

I nod and stand shakily. I had finished with it long ago, but I was too busy losing my temper with my friend to get up.

Watson steadies me without a word and helps me to tidy myself up. He then helps me to wash and dry my hands before he lifts me into his hard but extremely gentle arms to take me back to the settee. I rest my head against his chest and close my eyes. "Watson..."

"Yes Holmes?"

"Thank you. For your help, your support..." my voice catches and I clear my throat awkwardly. "And for understanding me."

He smiles at me. "You are my dearest friend Holmes! Of course I understand you."

As I so often have, I wonder what I have done to earn such friendship. I am not a very good friend, after all.

"Rest," Watson advises gently as he makes me comfortable. "I shall just go and put Lestrade's mind at rest. I expect she is still very worried."

I nod and lie back, covering my eyes with my arm.

"Move your arm please," Watson requests. "I should reposition this cloth. You are still far too hot."

I nod again and do as he says without a word.

"You are still tearful! Are you all right?"

I sniff and dab at my nose. "I am just... confused."

He pats my hand gently. "Perfectly understandable old chap. Rest now. I shall be back once I have had a talk with Lestrade."

I lie back and listen to him as he goes up to the bedroom above me. I hear them engage in conversation, but I cannot make out much. I try not to think about what Lestrade probably thinks of me at this point.


	7. With Friends Like These

Watson's footsteps sound on the stairs again. I uncover my eyes to look at him as he enters the room and am met by a friendly smile. Just like my Watson, this chap is very quick to forgive. If only I could forgive myself! "Watson..." I start to cough. My throat feels as if I have something akin to shards of glass lodged within it.

My companion comes to my side and sits me up gently. He rubs my back until the coughing subsides while he gently talks to me and then he helps me to drink. "You are ill, upset and confused Holmes. I know that you did not mean to lash out at me. You can stop vexing yourself about it."

"I still feel... I owe you an apology," I cough again and raise one hand to my tortured throat as the other clutches at my chest.

He shakes his head. "I understand," he says in a rather sad whisper. "I am not Doctor John Watson. I saw that when you pointed out to me that..."

I grip his arm and shake my head. It is time to undo some of the damage that I have wrought. "I should not have said it! Granted, there are gaps in your memory. Granted, you make mistakes as a result..." I cough again and he helps me to drink some more water. "But all the same..." I shake my head. I have hurt him quite enough and I have to choose my words very carefully. "You have picked some things up that you could not possibly have learnt from those journals. Your expressions, for example. You are the only droid that I have seen that will shrug your shoulders or hang your head. The way in which you express yourself is... well... exactly like my Watson! Perhaps you captured rather more of him than I first thought, when you scanned his journals..." I realise that he has his head bowed so that I cannot see his face. "Are you all right old chap? What have I said now?"

He nods but does not meet my gaze. "I am all right."

"Are you sure Watson? Have I hurt you again?" I groan as my eyes and nose begin to tingle and sting. How am I supposed to talk to him when I keep interrupting myself? "I did... not..." I close my eyes and snatch up a handkerchief. It is no good, I shall have to give vent before I can continue. "Hitchoo! Aaah-attishoo! Aashoo! Oh...!" I moan and wipe at my sore nose before giving one last, tremendous sneeze into the cloth. "Haaaatchoo! Oh, do excuse me," I wipe my nose again and grimace. "I did not mean to hurt you..."

"Bless you!" Watson takes my hand gently. "I am not upset Holmes. I am glad that you are finally beginning to see me as more than a droid. I... this has been hard for me, as well."

I nod and wipe my eyes. Are they ever going to stop betraying me? "I am sorry. I... I did not realise that I had given you the impression that I still thought of you as nothing more than a robot when I shouted at you," I cough again and feel my stomach warn me to have a care. I grimace again. "I have been dreadfully cruel. I am sorry." Even as I say it, I know that it is not good enough.

"It is not your fault! You have been grieving. I simply did not realise," he pats my hand. He is so very gentle. His kindly gestures are another thing that he shares with my Watson. Surely a machine should not be able to be so very tender?

"You are far too kind to me. I do not deserve it."

He stares at me for a long moment. "Now I know that you are not yourself! I have never heard such nonsense from you."

I give him a weak smile as he helps me to sip some more water. My throat does need it, but I am already thinking about the consequences of drinking so much. I shake my head after taking two small sips and push the glass away.

"You have to keep drinking!"

"I am not thirsty."

He frowns at me for a moment and then shakes his head. "You have to drink Holmes. I know that you are concerned about having to ask for assistance during the night, but..."

"It is difficult!" Ow! My poor throat! I should not raise my voice.

He nods and squeezes my hand. "I know. Lestrade does as well. She will be sympathetic, I assure you."

I groan and turn away. It is not sympathy that I need! "For how long am I going to be like this?" I ask quietly.

"I am not sure Holmes," he says quietly. "I do know that you are so weak because your body has not had enough fuel. Water will keep you hydrated, but you need energy."

"I know." If I felt able to eat, I would have asked for something!

"Are you hungry?"

I shake my head. "I cannot trust my stomach. It feels rebellious enough when you give me water."

"You should have told me!" he squeezes my hand. "You have to drink plenty of water and rest then. You will know when you want food."

I smile gratefully and allow him to give me more water and then help me to find a comfortable position to recline in. "I am sorry... I know that I am being rather difficult."

"You are ill Holmes," he squeezes my hand and then adjusts the blankets about me. "The trouble with you is that you do your utmost to go on as normal until you wear yourself out. If you would only allow your friends to care for you, this would be much less unpleasant for you."

He is right of course, but I am trying so very hard to do just that!

"Well," he sits on the edge of the settee at my side and gives my arm a gentle squeeze. "You should at least try to stop shutting us out."

"Hum..." I know! If only he knew what an effort I am making!

My companion is watching me with a frown. I take it he is trying to decide upon the next course of action. "Rest now. You are in safe hands."

I am indeed. I settle back with a weary sigh. "Watson...?"

"Yes Holmes?"

I look up into his concerned gaze for a long moment. "You do know that... that what you do is appreciated...?"

He smiles and pats my hand. "I have always known it," he assures me. "Rest now and do stop fretting. I am all right."

"I am so very glad," I mumble tiredly. "You do mean more to me than I seem able to express."

The smile broadens. "You have always found it difficult to express such things. I can only recall one incident in which you revealed the full extent of your feelings for me. The time when I was shot and you feared that I was mortally wounded. Do you remember? You told the villain that dared to fire at me that, had he done me serious harm, he would not have left the room alive!"

I nod. "I do remember, yes. I recall the look on your face as well..." I grimace as another memory presents itself unbidden. It is a memory that I do not want to discuss with this Watson!

"Are you all right Holmes?"

I nod and swallow awkwardly.

My hand is suddenly in the cold but gentle grip of both of my companion's. "I am here," he tells me gently. "I promise you, I shall remain for as long as you need me."

The way in which he says that, the manner in which he smiles... Truly, he is so much like my Watson! I smile back at him.

"It is all right," he tells me when my eyes start again, mostly due to this infernal illness. He wipes away the tears and smiles at me sympathetically. "At least I know what is wrong now."

I groan and shake my head. "I am sorry about..."

"There is no need!" he assures me hastily. "I understand Holmes. You do not have to apologise. If somebody had attempted to take your place when I thought that you were dead..." he looks away, but I catch a glimpse of his expression as he does so and his shoulders slump miserably. "Does my being here do you any good at all?" he asks quietly.

This takes me aback! It was I that suggested that he move in with me, not him! "I want you here Watson," I tell him quietly. "If that were not the case, I would not have asked you to stay here..." I blink rapidly. "I am truly sorry. I have hurt you terribly and..." I close my eyes and fight to bring myself back under control. I have so much to say but I am frustratingly unable to!

"It is all right," he assures me. "It is you that I am worried about."

"It always is," I mumble. "I do not deserve your friendship."

He snorts. "That is quite enough of that, I should think. That is completely absurd old chap. Surely you know that?"

I try to smile.

He shakes his head and smiles back at me, though I can see that he is irritated.

"I am sorry old fellow," I dab at my running nose and sniff. That is not wise. My head pains me as a result and I grimace and close my eyes.

"Do you think that you should take some medicine?"

No! Absolutely not! Just the thought of that purple drink that was forced upon me is enough to turn my stomach. "I am all right. Thank you."

"I wish that you would!"

I groan. So it begins! "I would vomit if I tried! Please..." I shake my head and grimace again.

"You might not feel so sick if you would only take something," he says quietly, touching my shoulder lightly.

I moan and cover my face with my arm. "I very much doubt that! It was bad enough trying to swallow that disgusting liquid when I did not feel sick!"

"Do not shout at me Holmes."

"If you would only refrain from keeping on I would not have to," I snap quietly. I should try to keep my temper in check, but he is annoying me! He does not know what this feels like!

He frowns back at me. "I am not 'keeping on'! I am trying to help!"

Trying and failing. He is the one shouting now and his voice is much louder than mine! The volume hurts my ears and resonates through my aching head. I curl up on reflex and then quickly stretch out again to reach for a bowl as my stomach lurches.

"Holmes!" my companion gasps, springing into action.

In an instant, I am sitting up with a bowl on my lap and Watson is holding me close and talking to me gently in an effort to give me some comfort. His support is appreciated, I must admit.

"I am sorry," my friend says quietly as he helps me to rinse my mouth and wipe my face. With a grimace, he rests the dirty cloth on the edge of the bowl. "I did not mean to upset you so."

I shake my head. "It is not your fault..."

"Perhaps not, but I did not help," he says with a catch in his voice. "I do not like to watch you suffer; that was why I tried to persuade you to take something. It is never easy to see a friend or loved one in such discomfort."

I touch his arm. "I am sorry..."

"No Holmes, don't you dare apologise! This is not your fault," he pats my arm gently. "Do you want some more water? I do not want you to become dehydrated and your throat has taken rather enough punishment."

I nod. "Please."

He helps me to take some tiny sips and continues to rub my back. "Has the nausea subsided? Shall I take the bowl?"

I shake my head. I still do not trust my stomach.

"All right Holmes," he whispers, holding me upright while I drink tentatively. "It is all right."

No, it is extremely painful! My stomach seems to shudder with every sip that I swallow as if it is preparing to reject the water and I feel as if I have been punched with tremendous force.

"You are shaking!" my companion notes with concern. "Are you all right?"

I nod. "It just hurts... a bit."

"I am so very sorry. I should not have raised my voice like that," he rubs my back again.

I allow him to assist me without a word and I then rest my hot head against his cool shoulder when I can drink no more. "I am sorry that you have to see me like this," I whisper tiredly.

"You have cared for me in sickness! Do not be so ridiculous Holmes!"

I sigh tiredly. "This is humiliating..."

"Stop that," he tells me sharply. "Were you ever less than sympathetic or kind when I was ill?"

"Of course not!" I rasp. I grimace anew as I realise that I am going to cause myself to cough again if I am not careful.

"Then I should like to know why you are so absurd when you are ill," he runs a hand over the part of my face that is not being cooled by his shoulder. His touch is cold and good.

I sigh gratefully. My face is far too hot!

"Poor Holmes," I hear him say quietly. "I dearly wish that I could do more for you old boy."

I shrug with my hands tiredly and give a violent shiver. "You do more than you know."

"I am sorry," he helps me to lean against the back of the settee and offers me some more water. "I know that I am cold to the touch."

"It does not matter. I want you with me."

He smiles and squeezes my arm tenderly. "You will always have me with you!"

I smile at that and close my eyes, unable to remain awake any longer. "That's my Watson," I hear myself mumble. What in Heaven's name am I thinking of? He is not my Watson!

The hand on my arm releases me and then both of his hands take mine. "I am watching over you."

That would seem to be all the reassurance that I need.

When I next become aware of myself, there is the familiar sound of the fire crackling in the hearth and there is a draught brushing my cheek. I am stretched out with my head resting against something warm and soft. I open my eyes tiredly and try to make sense of my surroundings, to find that I am still sprawled upon the settee and my head and shoulder are propped against Beth Lestrade's stomach. I give a start.

"Hum...?" she opens her eyes and smiles down at me. "Hey there!" she says in little more than a cheerful whisper. "How're you feeling?"

"All the better for seeing you." Ugh! What the devil do I think I am saying? I suppose it is better than telling her how I do feel, which is the reason behind the ridiculous answer, but I do wish that I had come up with a better reply. I shall put it down to the illness; I am most certainly not myself!

She frowns at me with annoyance. "Where'd you learn a cliché like that?"

I simply frown back at her and shrug with my hands.

She smirks. "There's no point in trying to be evasive anyway; I can see you're still feeling bad. How's your stomach?"

"Better, I think..." I had thought that I had stopped vomiting earlier though, so I still do not trust it.

"Can I get you anything?" is the next question.

I shake my head and close my eyes.

"Sherlock, you must've woke up because you want something. Come on, what d'you need?"

Water. My throat is so very dry and sore! I try to pull myself upright to reach for the jug and glass but I am far too tired and weak. My vision dims and I fall back again.

"Stop being so stubborn!" she admonishes. "What is it you want? Point or something if you don't wanna talk."

I wave a hand in the direction of the jug and rub at my sore throat with a grimace.

"Of course," she says quietly, pouring me a drink and lifting me into a sitting position, propping my shoulders up with her arm. "Take it slowly if your throat hurts."

I take her advice. I am relieved when my stomach does not threaten to reject every tentative sip that I swallow.

"Do you want some more?"

I shake my head and try to settle again. I feel as if I have been working a particularly long and trying case. I am completely done up!

"Is there anything else I can do?"

"Need sleep," I rasp in reply. How can I still want sleep when I have done so very little else?

"Right, OK then," she holds me close to her so that my head is on her shoulder and runs a hand through my hair. Usually I would demand that she desist, but just this once it is actually quite soothing and pleasant. "Rest. I've got you."

"So I see... Why are you doing this?"

She meets my gaze with a small smile. "You woke up earlier in the middle of some kind of fever dream. Holding you close seemed to help you to relax and go back to sleep."

I am surprised and rather touched that she would want to offer such support. I return her smile wearily.

"Are you warm enough?" she asks quietly when I shiver.

I nod. Even if I say that I am not, I am quite sure that I have every blanket in the house!

"Are you sure?" she presses. "I've got a nice, warm sleeping bag in the room upstairs. I could open it out and wrap it around us..."

That is hers! I shake my head and try to press myself closer to her sleepily. Sharing body heat is better than blankets anyway.

"You're comfortable like this, I take it."

I nod and attempt a smile. I am vaguely aware of a warning in the back of my mind, amongst my scattered thoughts and confused memories, that this is not proper. At the moment, I am far too ill and tired to care about that overly much.

Lestrade starts to cool my face and I can hear her talking to me quietly. I am not exactly sure what she is saying, but her tone is very different from the one that I would usually associate with her. She is doing her utmost to reassure me, I realise.

My sluggish brain suddenly catches up and I frown up at her. "Are you cold?"

"No," she laughs. "You're so warm I don't think I could feel cold!"

I shiver again and sniff. "You were saying about wrapping us both up..."

She stops cooling my face and presses her hand to my forehead. "That was for your benefit Holmes, not for me. Zed! You're still so hot!"

I know. That would be why I am feeling so cold.

"D'you think you could manage some paracetamol? That should bring your fever down."

I grimace. "I am not sure..."

"Well, try it Sherlock. I've got some tablets you can try, if you don't wanna try another one of those medicated drinks. Watson said you found it hard to drink the one you had earlier."

"I think pills would be better..." I shudder at the memory of that horrid drink. I most certainly do not want to try another one of those!

"OK. Let me up then."

I allow her to move me aside and prop me against my pillows. My eyes follow her as she crosses the room and picks up her handbag. My apprehension transforms into mild amusement and curiosity when she begins to scrabble through the bag! I am not entirely sure what half of the items that she tosses onto the table are, but among them are sunglasses, a hairbrush, a mirror and what would appear to be a make-up bag. Why do women feel that they cannot survive without such things?

"Zed! Why does the stuff you're looking for always end up at the bottom?" she groans as she tosses something else onto the table. "They've gotta be in here! I always make sure I've got painkillers with me!"

I smirk to myself as I watch her antics. I am quite wakeful now!

"Well," Lestrade huffs. "I've found the candy I thought I'd thrown away... Aha! I wondered where I put this flashlight!"

I start to laugh. I simply cannot help myself.

She turns to stare at me. "I think this is the first time I've heard you laugh since last night! Are you feeling better?"

Unable to answer, I instead begin to cough violently.

"Just a minute, Sherlock!" the Yarder sits me up straight and helps me to sip some more water. "Guess laughter isn't always the best medicine," she remarks with a smirk. "You should take it easy."

Very droll. I frown back at her.

"Come on Holmes," she says quietly. "Don't go back to being miserable! For a minute I really thought you were feeling better."

No, I simply could not help laughing at her. I attempt to clear my throat and wince as a result.

She sighs and touches my arm. "You've hurt your throat again."

"Excellent deduction," I mutter. I should keep quiet! Attempting to talk causes me to cough again.

"Serves you right," she retorts as she plies me with more water. "This is what happens when you make fun of people. You won't get any sympathy from me."

Even as she says it, she is expressinng her sympathy and concern. Ha! To think that Watson accused me of talking nonsense! I simply raise an eyebrow at her and try to smirk.

"Ran out of witty remarks, have you Holmes?" she asks innocently.

I grimace at this quip.

"I could get used to this!" she says with a fiendish smile. "Sherlock Holmes staying quiet for a change. It's nice."

I shiver and hunch my shoulders. I wish the infuriating woman would leave me alone!

Lestrade desists at once. "You really do feel rough, don't you? Aw, I'm sorry Sherlock. I'll find you those tablets and see if we can make you a little more comfortable. OK?"

I nod and close my eyes. As well as being aggravated I am also feeling exhausted again.

"Is it just your throat?" My 'friend' asks, suddenly concerned.

"Mostly," I wince, and not entirely due to the pain. My voice has reduced to a hoarse whisper.

Lestrade's eyes widen and she crouches at my side. "You're losing your voice!"

Oh, well done Miss Lestrade! Top marks for observation; go to the top of the class! I raise an irked eyebrow at her and turn away sharply with a violent shiver.

"I take it back! I didn't mean what I said about your being so quiet being a good thing," she puts an arm around me. "I was kidding!"

I do know that. I shiver again and pull a handkerchief from my pocket. "Huh... Aatchoo-choo!"

"Aw, you're still sneezing," she pats my arm and smiles at me as I turn back. "You OK?"

Not really. I grimace and attempt to curl up.

"I know you're cold, but curling up won't do your stomach any good. Hold on; I'll go get you my sleeping bag."

Before I can even attempt to protest she is eagerly bounding upstairs. I know that she means well, but she is not going to want to use her bedding after wrapping it around me! I am still sweating horribly and I must be terribly contagious! She really should not have been... What was she doing anyway? Cuddling me? I cannot even remember my own mother holding me like that when I was a child, in sickness or in health! Why the dickens would Lestrade want to?

"Here we are," the Yarder says quietly as she drapes the thick bedding over me.

Her sudden reappearance at my side startles me, for I had not heard her return.

"I'm sorry! I didn't mean to make you jump," she says when I flinch. "I guess I keep forgetting that you're in such a bad way. Well... This should help you to feel warmer, at least. I'll toss another log on the fire too."

I address her with a small smile of gratitude. She is right; the sleeping bag does help.

I am somewhere between sleep and wakefulness when Lestrade gives a cry of triumph. "Here they are! I've found them Sherlock!"

Found what? I jolt from a waking dream that would appear to be about searching unusual locations for bizarre clues. I am not entirely sure though. All I really remember is the frustrated, sinking feeling that I have as I race against the clock with the impression of time slipping away. Probably with a man's life in the balance.

"Here," she smiles and hands me two pills and a glass of water. "These should make you feel better."

I am willing to try anything! Swallowing the pills is rather painful, but at least it is quicker and less unpleasant than the horrid drink! I have as much water as I dare and hand back the glass with a nod of thanks.

My friend resumes her place on the settee and repositions me so that I am lying across her with my head resting on her shoulder. She adjusts her sleeping bag about us so that we are both well wrapped up and smiles at me. "Think you can sleep now?"

I nod and try to relax.

"I'm sorry I'm not very musical," she says quietly. "I wish I could play something for you... or even sing..."

I shrug my shoulders wearily. "Just talk."

"Talk?" she frowns at me. "I don't think I should strain your voice by keeping you chatting."

I have the perfect retort but my throat is too painful. I would dearly like to remind her that she was rather enjoying her one-sided conversation with me earlier!

"You want me to talk you to sleep, do you?" she grimaces. "Am I really that boring?"

I am not sure whether she is joking or not. Women are so deucedly unreadable! I grimace and shake my head; it is best to ere on the side of caution, I find.

"I guess I could tell you a story... Did Doctor Watson ever do that?"

I nod. He used to read anything, from his journals to the popular literature of the day, when he watched over me; though I rarely heard much of it. I had a tendency to listen to his voice as opposed to the words, particularly when he had dosed me with morphine and laudanum.

Lestrade holds me close to her and begins to recite a story that she knows by heart. My eyes slip shut and I give a weary sigh as I relax and listen as intently as my fevered state will allow.


	8. Have I Been Drugged?

_**I just want to give a quick "thank you" to Ballykissangel and my two anonymous friends for their help in untangling this chapter before it was submitted. Many thanks indeed! I think I would have gone mad or given up without you. (If you find any errors, blame me; I am the writer and all mistakes are my own.)**_

When I next awake I feel worse than ever! I am far too cold, my head is aching so much that it even hurts when my expression changes and my body is paining me terribly. I might be inclined to believe my dream about losing a boxing match if my nose and throat were not already reminding me that I am far too ill to even want to attempt it. Ha! I thought that those pills were supposed to make me feel better!

"Hey," Lestrade is smiling at me. "You slept a full four hours! The tablets must've done some good."

Oh, typical! I slept while I was comfortable and awoke when the medicine wore off!

"How's your voice?"

I point at the water. Whether I am physically able to speak or not, my throat is far too dry to attempt it just yet.

"Of course Holmes. Here," she pours some water into a glass and hands it over.

I take a few tentative sips and then set it aside hastily. It is much too cold!

"Had enough?"

I begin to shiver and turn my face away from her hastily as my nose starts to tingle.

"Don't tell me you're still cold! You should..."

"Uh... choo! Ashoo!" Ugh! I have not had time to retrieve my handkerchief and have been forced to make do with my hand. Needless to say, it is horribly unpleasant.

Lestrade rests a hand on my shoulder and passes me a handkerchief. "...feel pretty warm. Are you OK?"

I quickly cover my nose and mouth. "Ahh... isshoo! Oh...! Ex... Aaahh... atchoo! Oh, excuse me," I believe that my voice is a little less pathetic than it was, but it does not sound like me at all! I cough and turn back to face her with a grimace as I first wipe my nose and then my hand. "I, uh, think I should like to wash my hands..."

She smiles at me. "D'you think you can walk if I help you?"

"I am not an invalid!" I snap at her. I try to stand but the room spins and it suddenly seems to be so very much darker in here... My ears begin to ring as I sit back down, doing my utmost to appear to have simply decided to do so, and stars dance before my eyes.

"Why are you so zedding stubborn?" she asks with a frustrated sigh. "Will you let me help, or do you want me to get you some hot water and soap, so you can wash here?"

I permit her to help me. Just standing and walking is exhausting! My body feels as if it is made of lead and my head feels strangely light. I now appreciate the reason why Watson has been carrying me. The knowledge makes it no less frustrating or humiliating.

Lestrade is gently squeezing my arm. "D'you wanna go back to the couch? It's not too late for me to get you that hot water and soap."

I shake my head and press on. I am not going to be forced to allow a tiny microbe to slow me down! I have been worse, even if I cannot actually remember the occasion; it was probably a very long time ago.

"When I read Doctor Watson's journals, I thought that you were only ever this difficult when you were on a case!"

I frown at her. I am not being difficult!

She huffs and becomes quiet under my glare. I am so very glad!

I am permitted to use the bathroom in private and then I am guided back to the settee. I cannot deny that I am extremely weary now and I shiver as much with fatigue as with cold.

"I should've told you to stay where you were," I hear the Yarder remark beside me. "Watson's right; you don't have enough energy."

I ignore her. I am all right! Granted, I am more than a little weary, but I am not about to collapse! I do give a relieved sigh when I am helped to resume my place on the settee, however; I cannot help that.

"Next time, I'm getting you soap and water," Lestrade tells me firmly as she places a cooling cloth on my forehead.

I grimace. "I did not just want to wash my hands..."

She looks away. "I thought as much," I hear her mutter. She turns back but does not meet my gaze. I am not the only one that is uncomfortable, clearly. "I could've... well... I could've done something about it without letting you tire yourself out."

I shrug with my hands. "The problem is resolved. It does not matter."

She nods and sits beside me. "You really don't look good. Are you OK?"

I give a theatrically big yawn and nod. "I think I am ready to sleep again now."

She growls. "Talk to me, would you? There's no point in my being here if you won't tell me what's wrong, or what you need!"

I apologise and wipe my nose and eyes; I notice that my hand is trembling as I do so. One glance at the inspector informs me that it has also come to her attention. Damn! I had might as well be completely honest then. "I feel weak. Faint."

"Great... D'you want some water?"

I nod and reach for my glass, almost knocking it from the table.

"Stay still," Lestrade orders. "What the zed is wrong with you?"

"A wretched cold," I retort. Bah! I dearly wish that I could inject some venom, or even some strength, into my voice! As it is, I satisfy myself with sarcasm.

She frowns at me as she helps me to sit up and drink. "Very funny Holmes. I don't usually get stubborn when I'm sick with 'flu. I'm usually too busy trying to get better to carry on in the way you are. I don't know how you find the energy!"

Easily. I am Sherlock Holmes; I do not slow down!

I am helped to drink and then the Yarder presses herself close to me. She amazes me! How can she want to do this when I obviously irritate her with ease?

"D'you want some more tablets?"

I shake my head. I do not exactly feel sick, but the faint feeling is upsetting my stomach enough to cause me to want to exercise caution. I smirk suddenly.

"Did I say something funny?"

"How would one exercise caution?" I mumble.

Lestrade frowns at me. "What d'you mean?"

I shrug. "Well... It is not a thing that could be taken for a walk..."

"Sherlock, are you OK?"

Of course I am! Why would she even ask such a thing? Why does she sound so concerned? I blink in the dim light and try to catch her expression. "Could you turn up the gas?"

"Stop it Holmes!" she snaps at me. "Sherlock, talk to me! Stop messing about and tell me what's wrong."

There is no need to be so sharp with me! "I am all right. I am just a bit dizzy and nauseous... and tired... and my head is aching..." I shake my head wearily. "Everything is aching!"

"You feel pretty bad, huh?"

"Hum..." Why in Heaven's name did I tell her all that? I normally would be much more tight-lipped.

She rests her head against my temple as my own head rests on her shoulder. Then she shifts slightly and I feel her lips brush my forehead.

"Do you not think me perhaps a bit sweaty to kiss?" I have a feeling that I may have worded that in rather a clumsy manner. I try to collect my thoughts. What is happening to me? Perhaps she has dosed me with some form of truth drug... I certainly feel odd!

She huffs a quiet laugh. "That was no kiss! It was just a little gesture of sympathy. I... I'm a little... concerned..."

"I must be quite foul... I would not want to hold me close... much less kiss me..." I wrinkle my nose at the thought. Ugh!

She sighs quietly. "Sorry Holmes. This is the first time I've taken care of someone in sickness and I guess I don't really know what to do. I'm just acting instinctively here."

"Hum, maternal instincts."

She looks away. "I guess..."

It would seem that I have insulted her. I suppose that is not very surprising; Lestrade is not usually an overly sentimental woman. "I did not mean to seem less than grateful," I mumble as I rub at my aching head. "It is obvious that you care rather too much..."

I hear her huff another quiet laugh. "Well of course I care about you! You're my friend, Holmes. I care about Watson, too."

"Would you cuddle him as well?"

She frowns at me in the darkness. "You really are strange when you're sick, aren't you? Yes, I'd comfort Watson if he needed it! Not that I expect to have to sit up all night with him because he had a nasty case of 'flu..."

"You could leave me now and get some sleep. I am all right."

"Uh huh, sure you are," she shakes her head and squeezes my hand. "Go to sleep Holmes. You'll feel better in the morning."

Morning cannot come quickly enough! And yet... I must admit that it is actually quite pleasant to sit here with my friend. It would be even better if she would only stop fussing!

I jerk awake suddenly. Where am I? What time is it?

"Sorry Sherlock," Lestrade runs a hand over my forehead. "I didn't mean to wake you. I was just changing position a little; guess my legs were going to sleep. Watson's up now and he wants me to go get some rest soon, by the way. Would it be OK if I get up?"

Of course it is all right! For how long has she been tending to me anyway?

"Holmes?" she leans close to me and touches my shoulder lightly. "How're you feeling?"

I attempt to clear my throat. My voice still squeaks and comes and goes when I speak. "Could I have some water?" I feel somewhat peculiar; light-headed and dizzy. My lips seem to tingle as I talk.

She gets me some quickly. "Watson's making me a cup of tea and then I think I'll go lie down."

I sip at the water carefully. "You have given me your bedding."

"You were cold!" she sighs and shakes her head. "You're still cold."

I nod and shiver violently. Of course I am cold! I have a chill; that is a common enough symptom. "Obviously."

"Yes, you've got a fever; I know. Zed! You're burning up!" she cuddles me into her. I take it that she is attempting to dispel some of my chills with her own body heat. "Maybe I should stay here. I'll feel mean if I take the sleeping bag back. If you go back to curling up in a tight ball all the time, you're gonna hurt yourself; it can't do your stomach much good."

I moan under my breath. "You should not have given me it."

"Zed Sherlock! You needed it," she rubs my back gently and touches my hand. "You still need it. You're freezing!"

I sigh and shake my head as she attempts to warm my hands. "Lestrade..."

She frowns at me. "What is it? Am I annoying you?"

I give my head another shake and shiver violently. "I simply wish that you would keep your distance. I musss... I..." I turn away hastily and scrabble for a handkerchief.

"Here," Lestrade takes my glass from me and presses a clean handkerchief over the lower half of my face. "It's OK."

It is not! She is in an odd position and I know by the intensity of the urge that this sneezing fit will be violent. I hardly want to dislocate her arm! I try to take the handkerchief from her and then she is suddenly curling around me, slipping into a position least likely to hurt either of us. What the devil is she doing this for? I am not that ill!

"Don't fight it Sherlock. You'll give yourself a headache."

Humph, I already have a headache. I close my eyes and tense. Fighting works for a matter of seconds and then I pitch forward into the handkerchief. "Eeeisshoo! Attishoo! Aaatchoo! Choo!" Ow! I screw my eyes shut as my body screams its protests. Sneezing is painful, coughing is worse and I dare not even try to move! It would seem that what little reserve I had last night has been used up. I had been trying to speak and I try desperately to find the thread again. What had I been saying?

"Feel better?" the Yarder asks as she dabs at my sore nose. I would resent the gesture if I had the energy.

"I feel... contagious..." I mumble with a sniff. Ah! That was what I had been trying to say! "I must be dreadfully contagious! You should stay well away..."

She shakes her head and I watch as expressions of amusement and irritation chase each other across her face. "I thought you said that you were a selfish man Holmes," she says after a long moment as her lip curls upward in a smirk. Amusement has obviously won. "I already told you: I'll be OK. I promise. I know that you feel bad, that's why I wanna be here for you," she wipes at my nose again and I snatch the handkerchief from her, making her wince. "Sorry Holmes," she says quietly. "I just don't know what to do. I know it's stupid, but I feel kinda responsible... I mean, I could've been more help when you were attacked..."

I cough into my hand and cringe. My chest is still terribly painful. "What could you have done?"

"I could've... Oh, I don't know!" she shakes her head miserably. "I just wish I'd done something, instead of standing there watching you and waving my stupid ionizer around like a useless piece of zed!"

I take her hand in mine and squeeze it gently. "You are not useless!"

She nods and smiles at me rather sadly. "I know. I just... I really hate to see you like this, y'know? I feel..."

"You blame yourself," I know what that is like, for I remember blaming myself for one or two things that befell Watson. It is irrational and helps no one and yet the nagging feeling of guilt remains. I move closer to her and rest my weary head on her shoulder, in an attempt to comfort her. "There is nothing that you could have done..."

"I know," I feel her gently wrap her arms around my waist and then she presses her body close to mine. It does dispel some of the chills from my back and shoulders, I must admit. "I guess I just feel bad about watching you suffer. I can't do much for you now so I wish I could've avoided this altogether... That make any sense?"

I nod and sniff. "More than you might think."

"Want some more water?"

I shake my head and try not to fidget. My body is clearly awake now.

"Oh... D'you wanna... go?" she asks awkwardly.

I turn away with a grimace. "I can wait for Watson's help."

She is quiet and still for a moment and then she carefully loosens her arms that are still wrapped around my waist. "Are you sure? You must be... pretty uncomfortable."

"I am a grown man," I hiss at her with annoyance. "Watson is only making tea; he will not be long. He wants you to get some sleep, anyway; that means that he shall be particularly fast."

"OK," she smiles at me. "But, seriously, I'm a Yardie! I've seen much worse in the streets after 'kicking out' time!"

I grimace at the thought. In my day, gentlemen (or, Heaven forbid, ladies!) would not even have dreamt of exposing themselves indecently in the street, caught short or not! It simply was not done. Furthermore, public houses always closed at a respectable hour and "night clubs" were unheard of! Though, I must admit, there was much worse than alcohol to be had on the streets of London in my day...

"You are OK, aren't you?" she asks me quietly, breaking into my thoughts. "I mean, you scared me last night."

I turn to stare at her, my heart suddenly in my mouth. I hope I have done nothing unforgivable! For all that I know, I spent the entire night sleeping, though I do feel incredibly drained…"What did I do?" I have visions of lashing out at her while she was attempting to cool my face or check my temperature. I know only too well that I punched Watson during a particularly unpleasant fever dream once. I remember the guilt that I felt afterwards, when my actions became apparent after the event; he was very quick to forgive and assure me that it was not my fault, naturally, but it bothered me terribly.

"Holmes? Are you still with us?" Lestrade rests her hand on my shoulder. "It's nothing you did. You just..." she shrugs and shakes her head. "You were delirious last night..."

"Me?" I find that hard to imagine! "Whatever do you mean? What was I like?"

"You were... Zed, I don't know! You just acted weird. You were kinda rambling at first. You said something about exercising caution by taking it for a walk..."

I turn my head to stare at her in disbelief. Surely she is joking!

"...And then you asked me if I'd cuddle Watson, seeing as I said that you're both my friends..."

"Oh God...!" Why did I do that? What the devil was going through my mind last night?

"It's OK Sherlock," she assures me. "Fevers are usually at their worst during the night. That's why I offered to stay with you. If you're gonna get worse, it'll happen at night."

I nod my understanding. "Thank you. For staying."

She smiles at me. "Actually..."

The door opens and Lestrade releases me hastily and falls silent as Watson enters with a steaming cup.

"Good morning!" he looks from one of us to the other with a puzzled expression. "Is something wrong?"

I expect Lestrade is embarrassed about being caught with her arms around me. I probably would be rather embarrassed myself, but my discomfort is building at a much greater rate than I anticipated and I am somewhat preoccupied.

"Watson, Holmes has to go to the bathroom," the Yarder announces, as if she means to use that as an explanation for the suddenly awkward silence between us. "He didn't want my help."

He shakes his head as he approaches me. "And why not? We have already discussed this Holmes. I thought that we had reached an agreement."

"Really Watson!" I snap at him. Is it not obvious?

With a sigh, he lifts me into his arms and hurries into the bathroom without another word.

When I am carried back to the settee, Lestrade is sitting there with her legs tucked beneath her as she sips her cup of tea. She smiles innocently at me and sets her cup aside to assist Watson in making me comfortable. "Are you OK now?" she asks quietly as she helps to wrap the many covers about me.

I nod and immediately regret it. With a moan I turn away and snatch up a handkerchief. "Arrrishoo! Aaashoo!"

Lestrade smirks at me while Watson blesses me. "You sure you're OK?"

"I think so."

Watson is frowning at the various items of bedding that I have wrapped about me. "Lestrade, is that your sleeping bag?"

He should know! He was the one that prepared the guest room for her.

She shrugs and retrieves her teacup. "Holmes was freezing! What was I supposed to do, just let him suffer? He was trying to keep warm by curling up and we both know that wouldn't have done him any good at all."

I frown at her. I would have been all right!

"And what about you?" Watson asks. "I hardly want you to become ill as well."

She shrugs and finishes her drink. "I'll share Holmes' blankets, if he doesn't mind."

I know that I should voice an objection. She has stayed up with me all through the night and must be as done up as I feel. "Lestrade..."

She gives my hand a gentle squeeze. "I'll be OK."

I shake my head tiredly and attempt to pull my hand from her grip. "No... Listen..." I cough into my free hand. "You must be completely done. We both were out late, the night... be..." I turn away hastily and cover my nose and mouth. "Atchoo-choo!"

"Bless you!" Watson says as I cough again and wipe my nose. "Poor Holmes! You sound even worse than you did yesterday."

It is not difficult to interrupt my train of thought at the moment and I glare at him as I am left wondering what the interrupted discussion was all about. "Where was I?"

"You were about to take some paracetamol and get some sleep," Lestrade tells me with a small smile.

"Oh..." I frown at her as my sluggish brain catches up. "No I was not. I was telling you that you need rest..." I pause to cough and grimace. "We were out late, the night before last, and you first worked through your shift yesterday... and..." again I stop to cough. "...and then you stayed up all night tending to me."

Watson nods. "He is absolutely right."

"Thanks Watson," she glares at him.

I sigh and rub a hand across my forehead.

The Yarder puts an arm around me and pulls me back until my head is on her shoulder.

I would pull away but, if she is as fagged as I suspect, she is probably rather chilly herself. I suppress a groan as I turn to the robot in front of me. "Watson... Lestrade is probably far too tired to venture out..." I feel her shoulder rise beneath my head ever so slightly as she stifles a yawn. Her stamina must be exceptional! Most people would be unable to keep their eyes open after a long day and sleepless night, much less stifle their yawns like that.

"I would agree Holmes," he replies with a nod. Aha! I expect he saw that yawn. Droids seem to notice much more than human beings.

I yawn into my hand and blink my suddenly watering eyes. "Do you think you could purchase another of those sleeping bags, if Beth were to agree to keep a watchful eye on me for just a bit longer?"

He nods. "Of course Holmes. I shall be as quick as I can manage."

"You called me 'Beth'," I hear her whisper as Watson hurries out.

I give another yawn. "That is your name."

"Yes, but you usually call me 'Lestrade'."

Well, the inspector is certainly observant today! I banish the thought from my mind when she stifles another yawn. She must be exhausted! "Why the deuce did you give me your bedding in the first place? Surely you knew that it was not wise?"

"Aw, zed! How many times are you gonna ask me that?"

I frown. "Have I already asked you that?"

She freezes and I get the impression that she is staring at me. "You really are in a bad way..."

What the dickens does that mean? I groan. I suppose it is obvious. "More than once?"

"Yes," she rests her chin on my shoulder for a moment and I feel her stifle another yawn. "I know you think it was a bad idea, but I just couldn't stand to see you shivering," she shrugs and sniffs quietly. I am instantly alert, even though I know that fatigue can cause a person to sniffle quite easily. "You're my friend Holmes," she is busy reminding me. "I couldn't just watch you suffer. OK? Isn't that a good enough reason?"

I nod and close my eyes.

She rests her cheek against mine and I feel her skin shift as she smiles. "How d'you feel?"

I shake my head. "Probably as done up as you feel."

She huffs quietly. "You didn't get much rest. You had a lot of nightmares..."

"I cannot remember..." This alarms me! I should remember. I may have a selective memory, but I do not forget things the moment that they occur!

"You can't think straight."

I glare at her. "Clearly," I snap quietly.

She sighs. "I know Holmes; I know you're frustrated. That's one of the worst things about being sick, not being able to think."

I nod my agreement. "That and being dependent."

"Yes. You've made it perfectly clear that you hate that," she wraps her arms around my waist and sighs again. "Is it really so bad? Knowing that you've got friends looking out for you, I mean."

I smile. "No, that is not bad at all..." I give a tremendous yawn and cough into my hand afterward. This is so irritating! "Excuse me. I must admit that I should like to know..." I stop to cough again and then wipe at my streaming eyes and nose. Grrr! "...to know why you should want to be here..."

She laughs and hands me my glass of water. "You're my friend. Besides, Watson said last night that he was worried about what might happen to you if he left you alone when he went to recharge... I thought I should help out."

Ah, now I see. It was as much for Watson's benefit as it was to help me. Somehow, that makes me feel better about having her here.

"What is it Holmes?"

I shrug sleepily, almost spilling the water as I do so.

"Be careful!" The Yarder quickly steadies the glass and helps me to drink. "Honestly Holmes!"

She is much sharper with me than Watson. He would never have shouted at me for being clumsy; regardless of how weary he may have been at the time.

"Sorry Sherlock," she says quietly. "I didn't mean it. Guess I'm tired and getting cranky."

"Probably," I attempt to make myself comfortable. I ache from head to foot!

"You really should take some tablets," the annoying female remarks. "You might not be so warm as you were last night, but you're still too hot."

I moan. "I am all right."

"I thought Watson was exaggerating when he described your stubborn attitude in his journals..."

I glare at her, which only seems to cause her to smirk.

"I mean... I know I can be pretty stubborn, but I do at least take something if I feel rough..."

I raise an eyebrow at her. "I very much doubt that you would take a day off..."

She laughs and shakes her head. "Greyson sees that I do, if I have to. I don't get a chance to argue."

But of course! "Oh the joys of having to answer to a superior," I smirk.

"Ha! You've got a superior to answer to now – yours truly!"

True enough. "Lucky me."

"Besides, I'll bet Watson always made sure that you rested anyway," she says with a knowing smile. "Being a doctor... "

That is true enough. He used to annoy me terribly! All the same... "Watson is different."

"Well... yes..." she rubs at her eyes. "You already said that you used to help him sleep and stuff. I guess it is different, if you're looking out for each other."

I close my eyes and nod. Watson was the finest man that I have ever met. He earned my trust and respect faster than any other individual that I have encountered before or since. How could he possibly be replaced? How could he even be matched?

"I know. I get it Holmes. You both had a very strong friendship. I'm sorry. I wish I could have him brought back too."

I give a slight nod. I do not trust my voice. I do not trust myself at all.

She groans regretfully. "I'm sorry Sherlock, but I really have to get up..."

I nod and allow her to move. Though I am glad of her moral support, I am also grateful for an opportunity to bring myself under control again. At least, this time, my emotions did not manage to get the better of me entirely.

"Will you be OK?" she asks with concern. "You don't look good..."

I dismiss her with a wave of my hand. "I am sure that I shall be all right for the moment. You have ten... tend... Attishoo! Aashoo!" I sniff and wipe at my miserable nose. "Excuse me. You have tended to me all night; go and tend to yourself!"

She nods her thanks and walks away.

I try to settle back, but the settee feels cold and uncomfortable now that she is gone. What the devil is happening to me? I do not usually crave companionship when I am ill; I prefer to be left alone. I recall occasions when I have even attempted to turn Watson away. I groan and hide my face in my hands as I am filled with regret. I missed my dear friend during my three years of hiatus, but I knew where he was and that I would be able to return to him. This is different. Painful. If he were here now I would not turn him away!


	9. Methods of Torture

"Are you not well?"

I awake with a start and force my eyes open at the words; which were not spoken with the concern that one might expect. The light from the windows is much too bright and I squint up at a silhouetted man as he towers over me.

"Dear me," the voice says with a chuckle. "We are off our game."

I know that voice. I feel a thrill of fear, for in my current state I am completely at Moriarty's mercy.

"What is wrong with you, then?"

I shrug. "I suggest you ask Watson," I croak.

He tuts and crouches before me. "You still insist on calling that robot 'Watson' then? I would never have believed you to be prone to things such as delusion."

I cough into my hand and try to conceal a grimace. I am weak and in a great deal of pain and I know that he undoubtedly was aware of that before I had even awoke.

My old enemy snorts derisively. "You disappoint me Holmes."

I refuse to answer. I doubt that I could anyway; I am dreadfully thirsty and I hardly want to ask him to hand me a glass of water. I stay still and try to ignore his words. How the deuce did he come to be here in the first place? No, I do not want to think about that. That leads very neatly to a question that I am not sure that I would like to have answered: where are my friends and what has happened to them?

A quiet groan catches my attention and I cast my eyes floorwards. I freeze as my gaze falls on the prone form of Beth Lestrade. She has a nasty-looking gash to her temple along with a swelling at her eye and blood is pooling beneath her head.

"You have feelings for her," he remarks with a smirk. "You do surprise me. You are the last man that I would expect to develop a sentimental attatchment toward your superior... or any other woman, for that matter..."

The nerve! I am not developing feelings for her! I have never sought after more than companionship in all my life – either of my lives – and I believe I am rather too old to start that nonsense now. In any case, he was the one that attempted to turn on the charm and kiss her hand, though I suspect that that had been done to upset her (which he indeed succeeded in doing). Poor Lestrade! For all her juice, that had left her very disgusted and somewhat unnerved.

"You do not deny it then?" he gives a wicked chuckle. "This is indeed interesting... They do say that the easiest way to hurt a man is to strike at his heart, but I had heard it said that you did not possess such a thing..."

I am doing my utmost to shut him out. He is only attempting to get under my skin.

He gives the injured inspector a sly kick to the side and smirks at me when she fails to react. He clearly wants to know what I shall do. What can I do? With a suppressed groan I try to pull myself upright.

"I think that you should stay down. You seem rather weak."

Go to Hell and this time stay there! I throw myself onto the floor with the intention of dragging myself to the inspector's side. I do not care what conclusion he may draw from this; Lestrade was most likely injured because she attempted to protect me.

"Holmes!" Watson catches me as I tumble from the settee and holds me close as his eyes sweep over me. "Are you hurt?"

I stare up at him as I do my utmost to calm myself. "Moriarty..." I cough violently and wince.

He gently sits me back on the settee and crouches in front of me. "Moriarty is not here Holmes," he assures me as he hands me a glass of water. "He would not get in the door, I promise you."

I shiver and look at the spot on the floor where the Yarder was sprawled. "Where is Lestrade?"

"In bed. She was falling asleep in your chair when I came home."

I shake my head. "She should not have done so much..."

"She will be all right," he assures me with a smile. "She is resting now. I checked her over before I put her to bed and, apart from being exhausted, she is in perfect health."

I give him a wan smile and shiver again before turning away. "Excu..." I press my free hand to my nose as I try to set aside my glass. "Ecsss..."

Watson quickly takes the water from me and hands me a fresh handkerchief as my breath begins to hitch. "Are you all right?" he asks, resting a gentle hand on my knee.

I nod and pitch forward into the cloth. "Eeeeishoo! Huh... aaashoo!"

"Bless you!" he pats my knee gently. "Can I get you anything?"

I shake my head and give another shiver. "Haa... aaaatchoo-choo! Oh...!" I wipe at my disgusting nose and sniff. "Oh, please excuse me."

"Bless you Holmes," he squeezes my arm gently. "Are you certain that there is nothing that I can do for you? You look dreadful!"

I shiver again and rub at my arms. I am positively freezing! My arms, shoulders and back feel as if they are encased with ice! "Thank you Watson."

"How do you feel?"

I wave him away and lean back, covering my eyes with my arm. Why does he insist on asking? I know that he can gauge my temperature and monitor my vitals. Surely he can draw his own conclusions from that?

"Is your head still aching?"

Hum, perhaps he cannot.

"Holmes, please speak to me. What is wrong? Do you have a headache? Vertigo? Nausea?"

I know exactly where this is leading: medicine! I shrug and emit a low groan. "If I answer, would you go away?"

"I say!" he stands up. "If you are going to be like that, I shall find something to amuse myself and leave you well alone."

"Please do."

He shakes his head and turns away. His shoulders are slumped, I notice.

"Watson..."

He does not turn to look at me. "I shall do as you ask and 'go away' Holmes. I suggest that you go back to sleep and try to improve that mood of yours."

Damn you Holmes! I moan and screw my eyes shut. "I did not mean it. Please old lad..."

"Go to sleep," he repeats firmly.

I give a low, frustrated groan. I dearly want to apologise but I would seem to be unable to find the appropriate words. Damn this miserable cold!

"Your theatrics are not going to convince me this time," he informs me severely. "Stop moaning and rest for God's sake!"

What the devil does he mean? I would not try to manipulate him by appealing to his sympathetic nature! Certainly not when I know only too well that I am the one in the wrong. I hide my face in my hands and attempt to stifle another groan.

I hear Watson slam down a book. "What is it?" he demands irritably. "You have just told me to leave you alone. I do wish that you would make your mind up! Do you want something or not?"

My poor head! I try my utmost to keep myself from reacting to the noise that he is making; I know that I deserve whatever I get.

"Holmes?" my companion is crouching before me and talking to me with gentle concern before I am even aware of a change in him. "Are you all right?"

No. My head is even worse! I feel as if the room is spinning about me and I am no longer sure whether I am in pain or simply feeling nauseous.

"Indeed you are becoming worse! Just a moment Holmes."

In a trice I am sitting up with a bowl in my lap while Watson attempts to cool me. I moan quietly. "The room... It is spinning like a top!"

"Would you like to lie down?"

Yes, but I hardly want to vomit over the settee and floor! "If I am sick..."

He rubs my back gently. "I shall see that you do not make a mess Holmes. I can move surprisingly quickly."

This is indeed true. "Very well."

He gently stretches me out with my head at the edge of the settee. "Does this improve the vertigo?"

"Very much so."

"Good!" he wipes my face with his cooling cloth. "And the nausea?"

I moan. "No change. I feel as if I might be sick if I do not have a care."

"If you were to cough, for example?"

I nod carefully. "Why am I still feeling nauseous?"

"I expect that it is due to your fever Holmes. You are very hot."

I squint at him. "Lestrade said that I was even hotter last night..."

"Yes; she gave me a full list of your symptoms when I got up this morning."

I frown at him expectantly. "I do not remember waking in the night at all, yet she insinuated..."

"That may well be because you find this illness disturbing," he says quietly. "In that case, you would forget the worst of the symptoms; it is a natural defense."

"I cannot forget things as they happen..." I reach for the water. I do not want to cough!

He lifts my head and gently helps me to drink. The water is cool and good. "Not normally, no. However, this illness is a severe one and I suspect that your fevered brain and body are capable of many things that are abnormal, as a result. Your heightened emotional states are quite likely a by-product of this fever, for example."

It would make sense. "I am sorry that I told you..."

He hushes me and shakes his head. "I should not have taken it to heart when you told me to leave you be. I should know that you only talk like that when you are feeling particularly unwell."

I attempt to smile.

"Do you feel any better?"

The nausea seems to be subsiding, but my stomach still feels painful and jelly-like after yesterday's vomiting bouts. "I no longer feel as if I might be sick at any moment."

"Good!" he drapes the cooling cloth across my forehead and stretches me in the position that I was in moments ago. "Would you be all right if I were to leave you for a moment?"

I nod and watch him leave the room. It would appear that I have recovered enough of my natural curiosity to wonder what he is doing. I am somewhat disappointed when it becomes clear that he only left me to retrieve a bucket.

"Here we are," he says as he sets it down. "Perhaps you will not worry so much about making a mess if you need only to roll over."

Perhaps. I close my eyes and attempt to settle. "Thank you."

I feel the settee shift as he sits at my ankles. "Poor Holmes..." I do wish he would stop saying that! "Is there nothing more that I can do for you my dear chap?"

"No more than you have, I believe." I most certainly do not want to vomit again! If I can persuade him to refrain from attempting to force anything aside from water upon me I am determined to do so.

"You really should at least try to take some sugar or honey..."

I wave a hand desperately. "No! Thank you."

"Could you not even manage to suck on a boiled sweet?" he asks with quiet concern. "It might help."

I am not sure. Yesterday, I could barely manage water when I felt like this!

"The Irregulars found you some mint humbugs," he tells me with a smile. "They thought that they might appeal to you more than the more modern sweets. It must have taken quite an effort for them to find them."

That was incredibly kind. "I must admit..." I swallow awkwardly and grimace. "The mint might rid my mouth of this horrid taste of bile..."

He leaves me again and returns with a rather nostalgic-looking bag of sweets. I am surprised to find that I recognise the name! The company was founded in my own era! "Watson was very fond of those sweets," I remark without thinking. Perhaps I have not recovered as much as I thought that I had.

He opens the packet and slips one of the striped mints into my mouth without a word before sitting me up. The mint flavour actually does make me feel moderately better.

I flick the humbug to the side of my mouth and give him a wan smile of gratitude.

He returns my smile brightly and runs a hand over my forehead. "Do you feel any better?"

I nod and sniff. The flavour is strong! It is causing my nose to tingle and stream. I shiver violently and press a handkerchief to my face.

"You are still cold!" he stands quickly and adds some more fuel to the fire.

"I... I uh... Arrrishoo! Ashoo!" I groan and close my eyes. Sneezing while nauseous is not wise. Ugh. I wipe at my nose and swallow tentatively.

"Bless you! Are you all right old boy?"

I nod. At least I feel no worse. I bite the mint in half and swallow it before I attempt to speak. "Is this an experiment to find out what I can manage?"

"No, this is (hopefully) giving you some sustenance. Your body needs fuel Holmes; without it..." he shakes his head and looks away. He thinks that this illness might kill me!

"What have you said to Lestrade?"

He turns to regard me with a concerned expression. "She knows that I am worrying. I have tried to evade her questions, but she is not blind."

I cough and rest a hand on my stomach gingerly. "You told her that you did not like to leave me."

"I passed a remark about fevers peaking during the night when she said that you appeared to be worsening. She then asked if I had a plan in place for when I had to recharge and offered to stay with you," he frowns at me when I groan. "I could hardly refuse! Going by what she told me this morning, it was with thanks to Providence that she did stay with you!"

Lestrade could be making it up. No! I dismiss the thought immediately. What reason would she have? Furthermore, had there been no danger at all she would have slept. She was completely spent! She had also clearly been afraid to leave my side for a moment. I am forced to acknowledge the evidence before me - I am quite off my game, to the point where I am subjected to lapses in my memory! I groan and cover my eyes with my arm, pressing the not so very cool cloth to my brow.

"I know Holmes. I know that this is hard for you and that you are not accustomed to convalescing. All the same, I am sure that you would like to stop feeling so very wretched as soon as possible."

I nod wearily.

"You should try to sleep old boy. Would you like some pills?"

No. I already suspect that the humbug does not wish to stay where I put it. I give a low moan.

"No?"

"Definitely no."

He pats my leg. "Would you like some music? I could put the radio on quietly."

I do not know what I want! I would like my violin, but I know that I would not want to play it while my stomach is so rebellious anyway. I also doubt that I could play it! My fingers are still paining me terribly!

"Holmes?"

I groan again. "If you can find a station that can manage to play some..." I burp and swallow with some difficulty. "...something bordering on decent..."

"I shall see what I can do. When you say 'bordering on decent'...?"

"Real music with real instruments. None of the new-age electronic rot."

"You play an electronic instrument," he reminds me.

"Not through... choice..." I remove the cloth from my head and prepare to make use of the bucket if I have to. The experiment with the humbugs was not a good idea. "It was... a gih... gift... from Le..." I burp again and fall silent for a moment. "...from Lestrade... "

"And you would not like to hurt her feelings," he finishes for me. "I know; you have told me that before."

I groan and roll over very carefully to stare down at the bottom of the bucket. I do not want to be sick if I can help it, but I get the feeling that I do not have very much choice in the matter.

He gives my leg another pat before standing up. "I shall try to find some music that you shall enjoy."

"Thank you," I burp again and grimace. "Excuse me."

"Of course Holmes! You are not well," he is quiet for a moment. "If you feel you have to vomit, do not fight the urge. Your body clearly thinks that it will help. "

It could be mistaken! I am very much in favour of not vomiting, if my body would care to listen to me.

There is a faint click and the sound of a piano playing a gentle tune begins quietly. Watson returns to my side and rubs my back gently. "All right Holmes. It is all right."

I shudder violently and close my eyes. I try to concentrate on the gentle hand at my back and forget about the nausea. That works for all of a minute and then my stomach takes charge.

Watson does his utmost to comfort and reassure me while my body rebels. When the unpleasantness has passed, he hands me a cloth and a glass of water. "Are you well enough to be left?"

I nod and wipe at my mouth. I can feel my lips trembling through the fabric.

"I shall get you some mouthwash then. Just a moment Holmes."

I give him another nod and wave him away. I have not been able to brush my teeth while my stomach has been so upset and mouthwash sounds like a gift from God himself. I try to stop trembling while I wait and bring my weary body back under control.

Watson returns to my side and rests a gentle hand upon my shoulder. He then gives me a measure of the mouthwash. I take it gratefully. It certainly does make a difference.

"Are you all right now?" he asks once I have thoroughly rinsed my mouth. "May I take the bucket?"

I nod and wipe my lips on the cloth that he has provided me with. "Thank you Watson."

He smiles and helps me to lie down again. "You are most welcome," he wets the cooling cloth and hands it back to me before covering me up again. "There we are. Please let me know if you require anything else."

"Thank you, but I do not think that there is much that you can do..." I shiver and pull the covers closer.

He nods and sighs regretfully. "Sadly not, but I shall do all that I can to make you comfortable."

The rest of the day is spent much like this; I am intolerably uncomfortable and miserable and the robot spends every moment doing his utmost to comfort me. I try not to snap at him, but that is almost as difficult as keeping my wretched stomach under my control.

Lestrade joins us at what I imagine would be supper time, were I inclined to eat.

"Good evening," Watson chirps cheerfully as she takes a seat in my armchair. "Did you have a nice sleep?"

She yawns quietly and nods. "Yes I did thank you Watson."

I fidget slightly under her scrutiny as she turns her attention to me. "Do you look rough! How're you feeling?"

I groan quietly and close my eyes.

Watson stands and goes to her side. They engage in a quiet conversation that I imagine that they believe I am unable to overhear. Watson should most certainly know better, for I have exceptionally keen ears and fevers tend to heighten one's sense of hearing anyway.

The gist of it is that they are both terribly concerned about my being unable to eat, for they both believe that I am much too thin to be able to afford to lose any more weight.

"I am not deliberately starving myself you know," I grumble. "I simply am unable to manage anything other than water."

Lestrade nods and sits at my side. "I know Sherlock. I know it's not your fault. Watson does too. It's just... we're worried about you."

I nod wearily and close my eyes. I would never admit as much aloud, but I do know that they do have good reason to worry; I can feel myself becoming weaker as this fever rages on.

"Have you slept at all?" she asks gently as she runs a hand over my cheek.

"No, he has not," Watson answers on my behalf. "He has barely closed his eyes."

"Aw Holmes! You've gotta rest!" she sits at my ankles and gently takes my hand. "Close your eyes. That's it," she starts to caress my hand with her fingers. "Sleep. Things'll be better when you wake up."

I can hear Watson quietly fiddling with something while Lestrade gently talks to me. Then the radio starts to scream. I groan and attempt to cover my poor ears.

"Watson!" the Yarder snaps at him. "What the zed are you doing? I'd just got him to relax!"

It is no good anyway. As is often the way of things when one is exhausted, I am now feeling rather uncomfortable and know that I shall have to get up before I am able to settle.

"I am trying to find something to soothe Holmes. This station was playing classical music this morning."

"That was this morning. Hold on, I might've brought something with me that isn't so bad."

Lestrade brought some music with her? I have never heard her choice of music and I am curious. You can learn a lot about a person by their taste in the arts!

Watson switches off the radio and comes to my side. "I am so terribly sorry Holmes! I was trying to help."

I fidget under my covers. "I would not have been able to sleep anyway..."

"Why not? Are you feeling worse?" he asks with concern as he leans closer.

I shake my head and wave a hand in the direction of the bathroom with a grimace.

"Of course Holmes," he gently gathers me into his arms and follows our temporary routine.

By the time we return to the settee, Lestrade is back with what appear to be memory chips.

"In my day we had records," I mumble as Watson wraps me up and reapplies the cooling cloth at my brow.

"Technology's come a long way since then Holmes," she retorts with a smirk. "You know that!"

I nod and eye the chips in her hand with curiosity. "What do you have then?"

"Oh, a collection of stuff. I like music from just about every era, I guess. I must have something here that you'll like."

"Holmes dislikes much of the electronic music," Watson tells her on my behalf.

"OK..." she looks thoughtful for a moment and then sets aside the chips. "Right, I think I know an easier way of doing this..."

I watch her sit at my desk and load my computer. "Whatever are you doing, Lestrade?"

"You can find anything on the Internet," she tells me with a smile. "Let's see if I can find you something you'll actually enjoy."

And so a new method of torture is born. She does a search for artistes that include violins in their music and tries them out in alphabetical order. Some of them are most enjoyable; some, like the Irish group 'The Corrs', are even able to transport me back to the London streets of my own era. Some, on the other hand, are dreadful! Who in their right mind would blend synthesizers with orchestral instruments? I think I shall have nightmares for months!


	10. Time to Heal

I am no longer sure how long I have been stretched out on this wretched settee. I am intolerably bored! The days are blurring into one and I am tired of being coddled! At least the vomiting has finally ceased and I am able to eat. Not that I feel terribly hungry after going without sustenance for so long.

"Here," Lestrade takes my soup dish and spoon from me. "Let me feed you. You look as if you're falling asleep."

Leave me alone! "I have had enough."

"You need to eat Holmes," she tells me as she loads the spoon. "You won't have the strength to get well otherwise. You wanna get better, don't you?"

What part of 'I have had enough' is so difficult for her to understand?

"Come on Sherlock, you need food. You've been so sick..." she frowns at me for a long moment and then smirks and chuckles quietly. "Here comes the space..."

It takes all of my self control to keep myself from dashing the spoon that the infuriating woman is waving in my face from her fingers! "For God's sake Lestrade!" I wave her hand away and glare at her.

Why am I being subjected to this? Doctor Watson would never have even considered patronising me in such a manner! There were occasions when he felt compelled to remind me that I needed food just as much as the next man and, I recall with a pang of regret, I did cause him a great deal of concern during some of my most trying cases; for they left me quite unable to eat or sleep. All the same, he never would have interfered in such a manner. How I miss him!

"Well, you're the one acting like a little kid," the infernal inspector retorts with a smile. "So I thought maybe I should treat you like one."

Oh, do please go away! I have had more to eat today than I have in an age! Is that not enough? I wave her away again. "I am not hungry! If you would like to cause me to be sick, I would imagine that you are going the right way about it. I have had little to no food for days and I feel unable to manage more than a few mouthfuls at a time."

"OK, I'm sorry. I'll take it away," she sets it aside. "Would you like some water?"

Water? My stomach is behaving itself now; why the dickens would I want water? I shake my head. "I do not like water. It is dull."

"Dull? What d'you mean Holmes?"

Is it not obvious? "It has no flavour; it is dull, boring! I only drink water when I am too ill or thirsty to care."

She huffs with quiet laughter. "So what do you want? Tea?"

Tea would be much better! "If you would be so kind."

Watson shakes his head. "I do not think that you should have tea just yet Holmes. You can have honey water, lemon water and hot honey and lemon drinks for now."

Oh, he has decided to interfere as well now, has he? And why could he not have intervened when I was being subjected to Lestrade's "help"? Hum, at least his list of drinks do have some flavour! I agree readily enough.

Despite my fever having come down to the point that I am able to eat, I have been left weak and tired. I sleep a great deal of the time, much to my disgust, and only seem to awake when I want something. At least Lestrade has managed to find plenty of music that is reasonably enjoyable and there is now a constant loop of soft violin music from my computer. That does seem to help to keep me somewhat soothed and able to rest without the same level of difficulty that I had first had when I had fallen ill.

"Attishoo!" I groan and open my eyes. The room is dark apart from the light from the fireplace.

"Aw Sherlock," Lestrade's voice whispers from my armchair. "I've lost count of the number of times you've sneezed yourself awake now! How're you feeling?"

Half asleep! "Give me a moment," I request with a yawn. It is not that I particularly want to give her a list of my remaining symptoms; I am more concerned about what I may let slip while I am still waking up. Ah! But I do feel better! The fever is clearly still with me and it is a little higher than it was during the day, for I am feeling cold again, but my brain is much clearer. I smile. "I feel... stronger."

"You sound stronger," she returns cheerfully.

Excellent! I stand up experimentally. Ha ha! I am still a little weak and I can feel myself trembling, but that is nothing! I can stand without feeling faint and that is a vast improvement!

Then my body begins its protests. I am not entirely sure how much I have drank today or when I last visited the lavatory, but my body is informing me that the answer is a simple one: far too much and not nearly recently enough. I detest illness with a passion! My usually easy to control body seems to rebel in the most unpleasant of ways! "Excuse me, would you?"

"I think you should take it easy Holmes."

Thank you my dear, but I do not agree. I feel I have suffered rather enough indignity for an eternity! "I am not going far and I shall not be long," I inform her as I do my utmost to keep myself still.

"D'you need any help?"

Observe the evidence before you! I impatiently step from one foot to the other. I am terribly uncomfortable! "I can assure you that I shan't. Would you kindly excuse me?" I set my steps in the direction of the washroom as quickly as I can without making my discomfort any worse. Truly I hate this miserable illness with a passion!

When I return to the settee, Lestrade seems somewhat concerned. It is most likely due to the manner in which I am shivering.

"I am all right; merely fagged."

"Your fever's getting worse," she notes with a frown. "You really don't want to use up too much energy; you went too long without eating to have much to spare."

And what the devil does that mean? I am not in the habit of wasting energy! Does she honestly think that I have merely decided that I should like to walk to the bathroom and back for the fun of it? Really Lestrade, do use your brain!

All the same I cannot deny that she is right regarding using up energy with ease. I am all but spent, and just from walking a few paces to the washroom! It is completely ridiculous! "All the same, I am much better than I was," I say at last.

"Yes," she smiles at me. "You're out of danger now. You just need to take it slowly and be careful not to make yourself worse. 'Flu is nasty Holmes. Dangerous too. Especially if you don't have a resistance against the strain you catch."

I have heard all this before from Watson. Dull, dull, dull! I yawn loudly.

"I know. I can see that you're tired," she makes me comfortable on the settee and stares down at me for a long moment. "You'd better drink something before you go back to sleep. That fever is gonna dry you out before daybreak otherwise, if it gets much higher," she shakes her head and sighs. "I really think you should've stayed on the couch. I would've left the room; you know that!"

Oh, do give it a rest Lestrade! I am no longer too ill to leave the settee without help and I am most certainly not going to use a receptacle if I have no reason to do so. "I am quite all right. As for a drink, lemon water would be fine." She will have to slice the lemon and squeeze some of the juice into the water. That takes longer than merely adding a spoonful of honey to a glass of water and it will give me more time to myself.

She huffs. "Right, OK. See that you stay awake until I get back then."

I nod and settle back quietly. I listen to her tread on the stairs. Then I stand up and sit at my desk to pause the music and get up the news reports. I wonder what interesting cases I have missed!

"Sherlock!" Lestrade sets my drink down on my desk with a tremendous bang that makes me flinch. I clearly had been too wrapped up in the report to hear her returning.

Ow! My head throbs in protest. "You splashed me with that," I inform her quietly.

"Too bad! Zed! You are supposed to be resting, not watching the news!" she grabs hold of me. "Come on! Back to the couch, you stubborn zedding idiot!"

"You could charm the birds from the trees my dear."

"Don't make me any madder than I already am Holmes! I've been helping Watson to take care of you for four zedding days and I'm not gonna watch you make yourself sick again! Lie down. Now."

I am shoved roughly onto the settee. What a nice 'carer' Watson has chosen for me! "I am bored! Bored, bored, bored!"

She folds her arms and glares at me. "Yeah, and whining about it is gonna get you zed. Zed, zed, zed! The more you rest, the sooner you can get off the couch and back to work. OK? Have your drink and go to zedding sleep Holmes."

"My drink is on my desk."

Lestrade growls. "I'll just get it for you."

I brace myself, expecting her to throw it in my face. Her back is stiff and straight, her fists are clenched and she obviously said that through her teeth.

"Here," she shoves my glass into my hand. "Drink up and go to sleep."

I set the drink down hastily.

"Holmes! I am not kidding!"

I raise a finger and pull my handkerchief from my dressing gown pocket. "Atchoo! Eeeeishoo!"

"Oh," she comes to my side and gives my shoulder a squeeze. "Sorry Sherlock. D'you feel OK?"

I nod and blow my nose. "I feel better than I have in days."

She sighs tiredly. "Which is why you're complaining about being bored as zed now. Well, you'll just have to be patient."

"Pah!" I am not a patient man, as I am sure Watson's journals have informed her. In fact, I am almost as impatient as she is! I drink my lemon water and settle back, folding my arms.

"Don't sulk Sherlock."

I am not. I am cold, that is all. I close my eyes and ignore her.

The highly infuriating woman wraps my covers about me and sits at my side. "I could tell you another story, I guess..."

"I was listening to one, but you dragged me away from my computer."

She wags a finger under my running nose. "That was a news report and you're supposed to be taking it easy. Not thinking, not running experiments; just resting and getting better. Watson'll have my head if I let you get sick again," she glares at me icily. "And I'll have yours. "

"You say such lovely things to your friends, Lestrade; it makes me wonder what you would say to an enemy. "

"My 'enemies' can go and zed off Holmes! I wouldn't get mad if one of them died of pneumonia, believe me!"

Oh! She is shouting, cursing and threatening because she cares! Truly, women are the strangest creatures I have ever known. Why did Providence decide that I should work with one? Truly, God must have a sense of humour indeed to have placed my under this Yarder's authority!

Lestrade sighs and wraps an arm around me. She looks as if she would like to say something, but each time she opens her mouth she thinks better of it and falls silent again.

"What is it?" I ask her.

She shrugs. "I don't know what to say to you anymore. I can't force you to rest, even if I can see that you're making your fever worse..."

"Give me some stimulation and I shall rest! Surely the Yard has some cold cases that I c-caaa... Atchoo!" I groan and wipe at my nose. "...that I can puzzle over. Excuse me."

She smirks at me. "I don't think you want any 'cold' cases Sherlock. I'd keep warm if I were you."

Very droll. "Pah!" I close my eyes and go to sleep, if only so that I do not have to listen to Lestrade's ceaseless nagging!

"Sherlock? "

I force my eyes open and sit up, blinking at Lestrade in the bright light that is streaming through the windows. "Hum?" Grrr! My nose is horribly blocked! That would explain the headache and dry throat.

She grimaces. "You sound awful! How're you feeling?"

My head is pounding, made worse by the bright light. That is unimportant because: "I am frightfully bored!"

"Change the record, would ya?" she smirks at me. "D'you think you might feel better after a quick ride with me? Maybe a change o' scenery might do you some good. What d'you say?"

I agree readily and within an hour we are in Lestrade's cruiser; much to Watson's annoyance, for he feels that I am not well enough yet. I have no idea where we are going. Lestrade would not give me any clues and my brain is still a little foggy with illness... not that I am about to admit that to her, of course. I sincerely hope that this car journey means that 'my superior' has finally decided that I am fit enough to take a case now. Damn Yarders; particularly dictatorial female ones!

"D'you feel OK?"

I frown at her from the corner of my eye. "I am perfectly all right," I snap. "I am no better or worse than I was when you asked me two minutes ago, the two minutes before that, or the five minutes before that. If I feel unwell, I shall tell you."

The Yarder huffs. "You don't though Sherlock; you know that as well as I do."

"Then why do you even bother to ask me?" I demand with annoyance.

"I don't know! Because I care, maybe? Because you're my responsibility while you work as consultant for the Yard and my friend whether you're working or not?" she shrugs and sniffs. "Maybe I'm just a glutton for punishment..."

I cannot argue with that. I turn to smile at her. "I am sorry my dear. I did not mean to be short with you; I have simply grown rather tired of being asked how I am."

She nods. "I guess I can relate to that. I'm sorry. I just..." she huffs a second time and turns to stare at me. "You scared me, OK?"

"Watch the road!" I close my eyes tightly and prepare to meet my maker for the second time. Lestrade's driving is bad enough when she is paying attention!

"OK! OK! My eyes are to the front! Relax Holmes!"

I open my eyes again and realise that I am gripping my seat. I am so very glad that my stomach has long since ceased its rebellion, or I would probably be fighting with nausea by now. I release the breath that I had not realised that I had been holding and clear my throat to avoid coughing afterwards.

I hear Lestrade sigh wearily. "Look, I've never seen anyone in such a bad way as you were and... and..." she shakes her head and sighs again, this time in a somewhat shaky manner. She is trying to calm herself. "You're usually so tough! It was hard to see you so tired and vulnerable..."

I can assure you that it was hardly an enjoyable experience for me either! "I do understand. I am truly sorry. That you had to see me like that."

She starts to turn her head but stops herself. "That wasn't your fault. Just... just do me a favour and don't get mad when I worry, OK? I've seen how bad you can get now; it's gonna take me a while to relax again."

What the deuce am I supposed to say to that? "I very much doubt that I shall become as unwell as that again," I decide to retort at last. "As you said yourself, it is unusual to suffer with more than one severe case of influenza in less than seven years."

"That's true, but fear is irrational Holmes. You know that, right?"

Only too well. "Yes, I do know that."

The rest of the journey passes in silence, though I suspect that that is mainly because Lestrade is being careful to avoid enquiring about how I am feeling yet again. She has her mouth tightly shut and every now and then she casts me a quick glance from the corner of her eye.

After what feels like an eternity, we finally descend and pull up outside of a graveyard.

"What is this? A case involving grave robbers?"

Lestrade smirks at me. "What was it you said about jumping to conclusions before you have the facts, Sherlock? Come on, time to get out."

I exit the car and stretch gratefully.

"Still getting aches, huh?"

I turn a glare upon her. "I have spent the last week on the settee, Lestrade; I could have done with a long walk rather than a lengthy drive."

She shakes her head. "I'll let you take a long walk when Watson says you're well enough. Right now, you're still recovering. In fact, you're only out at all because you were about to start climbing the walls!"

Ha! "I can assure you that I most certainly do not climb walls," I retort as she takes my arm and guides me through the graveyard.

"No, 'course not; you shoot 'em, don't you?"

I pull my arm from her grip. "I only did that the once!"

She stops and frowns at me when I cough. "You sure you're OK?"

"I am certain," I assure her. "Watson tells me that the cough may linger for a few more days, but I do feel very much improved."

She snorts. "I can see that you're feeling better Sherlock. I didn't ask that; I asked if you were OK. There's a difference."

Hum! Bravo Lestrade; you may consider me put squarely in my place. "Why are we here? It looks as if nobody has walked these paths in years!"

"D'you want me to tell you, or would you prefer to work it out for yourself?" she asks me with a smirk. "After all, you were complaining that you needed some 'mental stimulation' before you went crazy."

I shrug and wipe at my nose. It is rather cold out and I can feel the biting chill through my Inverness.

The Yarder slips an arm around me. "Maybe I should've waited until you were a hundred percent..."

"Oh really Lestrade!" I attempt to pull away but she grips my arm and gives it a squeeze.

"Come on Holmes, I don't wanna fight. Ah! Here we are; I'll let you take a look around alone. Call me when you're ready to go home."

I am pointed toward an ancient grave that is wrapped in ivy and overgrown with weeds. I approach it slowly and kneel beside the obscured tombstone. I have a strange, uncomfortable feeling that I recognise this grave. I tentatively reach out a hand and brush aside the leaves. Yes, I know this stone; even though I only visited this place but the once. It marks the final resting place of my dearest friend. Standing shoulder to shoulder with his headstone is that of his loving wife Mary.

"Hello Watson," I whisper hoarsely. "I doubt that you expected to be visited by me, but... well... you always said that I would never cease to surprise you."

I cough into my hand and take a moment to ensure that I am quite alone. There is not a sign of Lestrade, but I know that she is within shouting distance. At least she has given us some privacy. I turn my attention back to the ivy-shrouded stone beside which I am kneeling.

"I am sorry old friend... I know not where or how to begin. You find me somewhat ill-prepared..." I shiver and rub at my arms as I attempt to pull myself together. I very much doubt that Lestrade will allow me to stay here in the cold for very long. "I have missed you terribly," I murmur softly, pulling up one of the many weeds and tossing it away. My poor, neglected Watson! I shall have to visit this grave - these graves - and tend to them regularly. "There is not a moment that passes when I do not think of you..."

And yet I did not even think to track down his grave; Lestrade did it for me. I dismiss the thought with a shake of my head. No, I know why I could not bring myself to seek this place out myself, why I had not even enquired whether it was still here. Far too many graveyards have been built upon without a second thought and I could not bear to think of my Watson's mortal remains sharing that fate. Ignorance, in that case, would indeed have been bliss.

"You must forgive me for not coming to find you; I was afraid that you might be lost," I shake my head and sniff quietly. The cold air is causing my eyes and nose to stream. "I am so very glad to find that you are still here. I could not..." I swallow awkwardly, for my throat is suddenly strangely tight. "I could not bear to lose you entirely."

I close my eyes and feel fresh tears slip from them and trace their courses down my wind-blasted cheeks. I lean tiredly against the headstone. "I now know what I put you through between '91 and '93 my dear fellow, for I am going through much the same now. I did not realise that being separated from a friend could be so very painful..." I sniff yet again and blow my nose as quietly as I can manage. "I would give anything just to see your face again... to hear your laughter..." I wipe at my nose and shake my head before raising my eyes to rest upon the stone before me. "...or even one of your admonishments..." I give a small smile. "I wonder if you knew how much good you did me... how much you changed me... I owe you so very much..."

All at once I am sobbing helplessly, unable to speak a word. I cling to the cold, ivy-enveloped stone and allow the months (nay, centuries!) of withheld emotion to leave me in the form of tiny, salty, droplets of water.

I shiver suddenly and attempt to muffle a sneeze with my handkerchief. "Attishoo!" I grimace at the sound, for I am still making rather too much noise for my liking. I can appreciate Lestrade's reason for keeping me from working just yet, however annoying it may be to be forced to stay at home when I am feeling so much better. "Excuse me old boy. I would imagine that you already perceived that I have been unwell. It is nothing really, only a cold! It has been more of an annoyance than anything; bad enough to keep me from my work but not serious enough to cause me to feel it is warranted... But you know how it is."

I am sure that he would laugh at my words if he could, for he does indeed know only too well. He was often forced to put up with me when I was too ill to leave the house but feeling too well to want to stay inside and do nothing. I could be insufferable when I was bored!

"I am not quite sure how I am supposed to go on without you. I am afraid of what I may become without you, for you were always my beacon of light in all my darkness. You yourself called my morose periods 'black moods', but they were never as black when you were near..." I choke on my tears and fall silent again. What must Watson think of me?

"I suspect that my current behaviour comes as much more of a surprise to you than anything that I have ever done before now," I grimace at the memory that Lestrade dredged up as we walked the path together. "Although you might be inclined to disagree; I have done some rather strange things, have I not? I do not kn-know haa..." I stop speaking and give my nose a twitch. It does not work. I raise my handkerchief to my face hastily. "Eeeeishoo! Oh, excuse me," I groan quietly and blow my nose. "I honestly do not know how you lived with me, Watson. You were most certainly as remarkable as you claimed that I was. After all, I was argumentative and sometimes deliberately difficult! There were occasions when I would insult your writing just because I was annoyed or bored and wanted to row! I..." I shake my head and lower my eyes. "I did not deserve your friendship..." I fall silent again and allow my tears to fall until there are none left to shed. When I am finished I am left feeling exhausted and yet strangely light, as if a tremendous weight has been lifted from my shoulders. I raise my head slowly as a gentle hand squeezes my shoulder. For how long have we had an audience?

"Lestrade?" I wince at the sound of my voice, for it would appear that I have cried myself hoarse.

She gives my shoulder a squeeze. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to intrude. I heard you sneezing and thought I better get you back before you get sick again, but then I saw you and thought maybe you really do need this."

I nod wearily as she helps me to stand. "Thank you for not dragging me away."

"You're welcome," the Yarder smiles at me. "D'you feel better?"

I return her smile brightly and squeeze her hand, which I am still holding in mine after accepting her assistance. "Much better! Thank you my dear. ...For finding my Watson for me and reuniting us... for I have needed him more than I could ever begin to say."

She blinks her suddenly bright eyes rapidly. "I only wish I could do more Sherlock. Come on, let's get you back. Your hands're like ice!"

I permit her to escort me back to her car without a protest. I had not realised how very tiring emotions could be; perhaps that is why I had not been able to find the energy to fully recover from my recent illness. Perhaps fighting all of my long-suppressed emotion had left me with nothing to fight the infernal chill off with.

I climb inside the hovercar and strap myself in under the watchful gaze of my friend. I may be rather more tired than she would like, but I already know that her actions have done me the power of good. I smile happily at her as she slips into the driver's seat and fastens her own seat belt.

The entire journey back to Baker Street is spent discussing the upkeep of the Watsons' graves and the flowers that I plan to plant there. At last, I finally feel some happiness warm my ancient heart and know that I can finally heal and begin to live again.


End file.
